


Nine Nights

by SarahC



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fingering, Folklore, Frottage, Here we go with the sex, I mean for the last few nights there will be no clothes at all, Loss of Virginity, Lots of C words, Lots of nudity, Nudity, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Rating will change, Sandor might thaw out eventually, Sewing, Snow, Snowed In, Storms, and plenty of it, grumpy!Sandor, i mean seriously, if I can work out how to do it that is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahC/pseuds/SarahC
Summary: Having escaped King's Landing following the Battle of the Blackwater (yay) Sandor has carried Sansa on Stranger's back as far North as he can... until the weather closes in. Lots of snow, just one room at the inn, and nine nights (count em) that our lovelies will have to spend together before they can get back on the road. What could they possibly do to entertain themselves, hmmm?One night per chapter... brace yourselves.





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> It's a long old boring trek north from King's Landing if you're avoiding the main routes....
> 
> (I know there's more than one night in this bit. Several of them. I'm only counting the nights when they get to the inn, right? Don't shoot me)
> 
> Unbeta'd, this is only my second fic here, please be gentle. Very happy to receive suggestions and fixes.

They had been on horseback for days. 

Sansa had lost count of how long it had been, but it was more than seven days and nights and probably more than ten. At the start, once they were clear of the city and out in the countryside, she had passed the time by talking. Asking him about his childhood - that didn't go down well. Asking about his life in the city. Asking him about how to fight with a sword. Most of the time he just grunted at her; a few times he actually told her to shut up. In the end, she ran out of things to say and fell silent.

After that she spent a lot of time dozing. She had never thought before that it might be possible to fall asleep on horseback, but once the panic and the horror of it all had left her, she felt exhausted and had felt her eyes beginning to close. She had never had to sleep out of doors before and nights spent under the stars (and the trees, and the clouds, and, once, the rain) had given her barely any rest. After three sleepless nights, she had leaned back against the solid wall of his armour behind her, closed her eyes and nodded off. A couple of times she had jolted back into wakefulness, thinking herself about to fall, but after a while her body seemed to get used to keeping itself balanced even when she was completely asleep, and after that it seemed the very best way to travel.

The days went by faster, at least. And the nights remained long, cold and miserable, waiting for dawn.

She reckoned on the distance by how the temperature had dropped. As the miles passed, it got colder still, so that in the mornings there would be a scattering of frost on the saddle and their bags as Sandor packed up the camp for the day's ride; in the evenings Sansa would shiver, getting as close to the fire as she dared before she was brave enough to try and sleep. He had wrapped her in his cloak, despite her protestations. He slept just in his armour, although sometimes she had woken to find him curled very close to her, not quite touching. It was no different to the position they took in the saddle, anyway; her body resting back against his; but he would not touch her unless she touched him first. He would wrap his cloak about her as they rode, too, the further North they got. She would start into wakefulness to find just her eyes and nose peeping out of the rough canvas, cocooned like a child. But at least, on Stranger's back, with his arms supporting her on each side, she was warm.

Once or twice, early in the journey, they had seen people - but mostly they had taken a back route to avoid towns and villages where either of them might be recognised. They stayed away from the King's Road for the most part, which made for a longer journey, but, he told her, a safer one. On that first night, she had been shocked when he dismounted and pulled her down from the horse in a clearing in the hills. A rocky outcrop behind them, trees, the trickle of a stream, but nothing else.

'What are you doing?' she had asked.

'Making camp.'

'Here?'

'Not good enough for you? Want to go back to the Red Keep, do you?'

'No!'

And he had made a fire, and caught a rabbit, and she had said no more about it. She had not intended to eat any of it, feeling grubby and slightly sick, then, from the rocking of the horse for hours on end, but the smell of the meat cooking proved enough to ignite the hunger in her belly and when he'd presented her with a leg, she had devoured it so fast, tearing the meat from the skinny little bones with fingers and teeth, that he had laughed.

'I don't think I've heard you laugh before,' she said.

He had not replied, and she didn't hear him laugh again.

He seemed to rest well enough, but when she fell asleep each night he was still sitting up, a little further from the fire than she was, watching the flames steadily and thinking of gods knew what. And when she woke up each morning, it was to the sound of him bringing water from whichever pool or stream or puddle he had managed to find, and some sort of small animal that he skinned and roasted while she gathered herself and tried to clean her hands and face on the dewy ground. If he slept on horseback, she was not aware of it. Surely he was alert, watching for people, judging their route, keeping the horse on the path.

'I feel safe, though,' she said, not fully realising she had spoken out loud until she heard him grunt behind her.

'I mean,' she added, thinking that it was an odd way to start a conversation, 'I am glad I went with you.'

'We're not safe yet,' he said. 'Won't be for a long time.'

It was the most he had said to her in hours, since this morning's rabbit, in fact, and she took some comfort from the rumble of the sounds coming from his chest.

'Is it still far?' she asked. 'Do you know?'

'Winterfell is days yet,' he said, 'winter perhaps nearer than that.'

'What do you mean?'

He lifted a hand from where it had been resting on her thigh - she was part of the saddle, now - and pointed to the rocky ridge that rose to their left, and to the dark clouds behind it. 'Can't you smell it? Bad weather's coming.'

'What sort of bad weather?'

'Storms. Snow.'

'What are we going to do?'

'Find somewhere to wait it out. A cave, maybe.'

Sansa huddled back against him, sulking at the thought. She longed for a house, even the very lowest sort would do; and a bed, and a hot bath. She had never felt so dirty in her whole life. Her scalp was itchy and she was terrified the Hound had given her fleas; her dress, the lovely blue one that had been her mother's favourite, was caked in mud at the bottom and had grease spots all over it from falling bits of roasted meat. 

'Where are we?' she asked, after perhaps another hour. It was getting dark, although it felt too early in the day, and it had grown considerably colder. Sansa could see her breath, and Stranger's breath came in clouds.

'North of the Eyrie.'

'But there's nothing north of the Eyrie!'

'Exactly.'

There was nothing except rock, and sparse vegetation, not even enough to light a fire, much less build some sort of shelter. Sansa was tired, and hungry, and yet above all that she had started to worry about him. He had hardly slept in all the time they had been riding, he had eaten very little - she noticed he always gave her the best bits of the meat, such as it was - and, not to put too fine a point on it, he smelled quite bad. Sweat and horse and leather, getting stronger and stronger by the day. What if he were to fall from the horse? They were on narrow paths now, winding through the mountains, and sometimes a steep drop to one side. Sansa had stayed awake once she had seen the ground dropping away sharply to her left. He had been holding her upright, but would he have been able to stop her, if she had toppled over? No, he wouldn't. He needed sleep as badly as she did.

And then, just when Sansa thought things could not get any worse, it started to snow.

* * * 

By the time they found the inn, Sansa was shivering so hard she wondered if she was going to pass out. Wrapping his cloak around her had done little to stop her hands and face from getting the worst of it; her hair was wet and white with a layer of snow on the top of it. For all his talk of finding a cave, when they smelled woodsmoke and saw the small group of houses, and the light at the windows, to his credit he turned Stranger towards the village instead of away from it.

A man bent double with firewood pointed them in the direction of the inn, and he slid from the saddle wearily before putting his hands around the Sansa's waist. She slipped awkwardly from the saddle, legs numb with cold, and he had to almost hold her upright.

'Can you walk?' he muttered into her ear.

'Yes, of course,' she said, straightening as best she could whilst still shaking from head to foot.

The innkeeper sent a boy out to stable the horse, and the two of them went into a bar that was probably half dead by King's Landing standards, but full of more people than they had seen in days. Sansa went to the fireplace and tried to get some warmth back into her fingers. A girl approached her after a moment and asked if they had travelled far, but before she could answer she felt his hand grabbing her roughly by the elbow.

'Come on,' he muttered.

She followed him up the narrow wooden staircase at the back of the building and waited while he did his business with the innkeeper. Already she was picturing a bed, a bath, a bowl of something, and sleep, blissful sleep...

'Oh,' she said, when the innkeeper trotted back down to the bar and the Hound stood aside to let her in.

He glowered at her and she quickly looked away. 

'I mean, it's perfectly fine. Thank you.'

The room was small, but warm - thanks to the fire in the small grate which had already burned low. There was a bed, a table, a bench next to it, and nothing else. No sign of a bath.

The Hound had already begun stripping off his armour. 

'Oh,' she said again. 'Shall I go to my room?'

'This is your room,' he growled.

'But -'

'It's our room. They only have one.'

'Oh,' she said again, feeling stupid, and looking warily at the bed.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll sleep on the floor. The girl's bringing you hot water.'

He hung his cloak over the bench and dragged it in front of the fire to dry, and Sansa added the few logs that were stacked next to it, trying to coax it back to life. Outside, the wind howled. Sansa could see nothing but darkness and swirling white outside the window.

A moment later there was a knock at the door and two girls, who must have been sisters for they had the same wide-eyed look about them, brought a tin bath and two buckets of water. They eyed the Hound with fear until he backed away and let them move the bench away from the fire.

'I'll be downstairs,' he said to Sansa. 'Don't go anywhere.'

Once he had gone the two girls seemed to sag with relief.

'Is he your father?' one of them asked.  


Sansa chose to ignore the question. 'Do you have anything to eat? I'm so hungry.'  


'Maer will bring you some stew,' the older girl said, nodding to the younger, who took off back downstairs again. 'Have you come far?'  


'Feels like it,' Sansa said. She was looking at the bath with dismay, for it was little more than a big laundry pan, certainly not enough to stretch out in.  


The girl poured one bucket in - a paltry amount, swilling around the bottom of the metal like a puddle - and left the other bucket to the side. 'For rinsing,' she said. From her pocket she brought out a big cake of soap, rough looking and yellow, and placed it on the bench, on top of the Hound's cloak.  


'That's a pretty dress,' the girl said.  


'It used to be,' Sansa said mournfully, and the girl laughed.  


'It'll wash out,' she said. 'I'll wash it tonight for you, if you like. You won't be going anywhere tomorrow, by the look of things.'  


'Won't we?'  


'Father reckons this storm will last for days,' she said. 'The valley will be all cut off by morning. So you might as well make yourself at home. What's your name?'  


Sansa bit her tongue. 'Jeyne,' she said, after a moment's hesitation.  


The girl's expression changed. 'No it isn't,' she said. 'But don't worry. I can tell you're in some sort of trouble. Nobody ends up here because they're just passing, they end up here because they're staying away from the King's Road. So don't be scared. I'm used to keeping my mouth shut.'  


Sansa tried to smile.  


'You get in before it goes cold,' the girl added. 'I'll get you some more wood for the fire.'  


Sansa stripped off her dress with some difficulty, the wet fabric heavy and clinging to her cold skin. She ached from head to foot, and although the shivering had stopped, she thought she was chilled to the bone and would never be warm again. But she was alive.  


Thanks to him.

* * * * 

The Hound was gone for hours. She had washed, scrubbed her hair as best she could with the rough soap, and dried herself off with her hands, wringing the water from her hair again and again until it wasn't dripping. The fire was roaring now, thanks to the wood that the elder girl - whose name was Lana - had brought. Sansa had dressed in her only clean shift, which was still damp from the bag and smelled musty and like Stranger's back, and had given her wet clothes to Lana to take away. Perched by the fire on the edge of the bench, trying to ignore the smell of the damp cloak, Maer had brought a tray with a bowl of stew, a cup of warm milk, and a hunk of bread.  


'I don't have any money,' she said to the girl, whilst eyeing the food as if she hadn't eaten anything for a week.  


'Your father's paid,' she said.  


'Is he - has he eaten?' Sansa asked.  


'Aye, and he's put a whole flagon of wine away already,' Maer said. 'Big appetite, hasn't he?'  


Sansa nodded, and once Maer had gone again she wondered if he would spend the rest of the night down there, perhaps sitting by the fire, passed out from the wine.  


She ate the stew and put the tray outside on the landing, pausing for a moment to listen to the sounds from below: laughter, talking, men's voices and women's voices. She could not hear the rough growl of the Hound's voice, though. For a moment Sansa felt unbearably alone. She had spent every moment of the last several days in his company, and now he had left her she felt afraid again. How could she wish for privacy one moment, and for his return the next? It was madness.  


She climbed into the rough wooden bed and took a moment to settle. She could feel the horse beneath her, still, in her aching thighs and with the illusion of movement, swaying backwards and forwards, the smell of the horse and the man behind her, the solid wall of warmth and muscle holding her up...

* * * *  


When she woke up it was to the sound of water. For a moment, disoriented, she thought she was on a boat. It was dark in the room, the only light from the dying embers of the fire, but at least, now, she was warm. She raised her head to see the outline of the Hound standing inside the bath, pouring water from a cup over himself, his back to her. It was far too small for him to sit in, and so he stood in it instead. And he was naked. 

Quickly she closed her eyes again and dropped her head back to the pillow, feeling her cheeks grow hot at the thought of it. He was using her dirty water! The shame of it burned inside her, hot and queasy. And he wasn't being exactly quiet about it, either, pouring water from his height that rattled into the tin bath and spattered onto the wooden floor around him. What a mess he must be making! She could smell the plain soap smell above the usual odour of horse and sweat and - yes, there it was - sour red wine. He had drunk plenty of it, then. She could hear him grunting and sighing, the sounds of his hands rubbing squelchily at his body. Under the covers, Sansa shuddered and tried to get back to sleep.  


A few minutes later she heard the rough drag of the bath against the wooden floor, the scrape of the bench, a sigh as he sat on the bench beside the fire. She lifted her head again and caught a glimpse of his outline. His back was still turned to her. The outline of him, huge, heavily muscled; the dark lines of the hair on his shoulders and his arms, the curve of his backside as it met the bench. Still naked! Had he no sense of decency? She buried her head in the covers once more, trying hard not to think of that image that was burned into her brain now, the shape of him, how solid he was, how strong. Those arms had kept her on the back of a horse for days, unrelentingly keeping her safe. And she missed them, she realised. Missed the feeling of his chest and arms as she relaxed into it. The bed, so longed for, was nowhere near as comforting.  


She heard the chink of a buckle and the soft sounds of fabric and realised he was dressing again. And then the rustle of the cloak being spread out on the floor, in the narrow space between the bed and the door - to stop her escaping him, she supposed, or to stop anyone coming in the door and reaching her before he had a chance to tackle them? And then a low groan as he settled himself on the wooden boards.  


The inn was quiet now, the laughter and the bustle from the bar had ceased. Nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackle of what was left of the logs on the fire. By morning it would be cold. She considered getting up and putting some more wood on, but she feared stepping on him, or falling over him. A sudden thought struck her - what if she needed the pot in the night? A rough panic gripped her at the thought, and as if triggered by the thought, she remembered the warm milk and the stew and the water she had drunk this afternoon on Stranger's back, before the snow started.  


She waited for the sound of his breathing to change. Perhaps once he was properly asleep...  


She waited, but there was nothing. Then the sound of him shifting position on the floor. He had taken his rest on the forest floor for days, surely a wooden floor was no worse? But how could he sleep, and how was it fair that she had the bed, and the rest, whilst he slept on a damp, smelly cloak on the floor?  


At last she could bear it no longer, and sat up. 'Are you asleep?' she whispered.  


'What is it?' he grumbled.  


'I need to be alone for a moment,' she said.  


'Huh,' he said. 'What for?'  


'I just... I just need a moment.'  


He shifted over to his side, his back to her. He was surprisingly close to the edge of the bed. If she had trailed a hand over the edge, she would have met his shoulder. 'Do what you have to do,' he said, 'and leave me in peace.'  


The wind howled. Perhaps loud enough to drown out the noise of her using the pot? Her bladder was agitated now by the delay and she pressed her legs tighter together to try and make the feeling go away. Perhaps if she could just go to sleep...  


'Get on with it, then,' he hissed, and the fury in his voice was enough to make her move.  


She crawled to the other side of the bed and reached underneath it for the pot. Looked over her shoulder to check, but there was no sign of movement. She crouched over the pot and relieved herself, biting her lip with shame at the spatter as her urine hit the earthenware. And there was no lid! They would have to spend the night with the smell of it.  


She clambered back into bed. It really was a very large bed, she thought. Easily big enough for the both of them. It seemed so wrong for him to be down there, on the floor. She could even put one of the thin pillows down the middle of the bed to keep him away, not that it mattered. Not really. If he were going to assault her, she reasoned, he would have done it before now. He had had plenty of chances to do so. He could have murdered her in the forest and buried her, and nobody would have been any the wiser. 

And yet he had kept her safe.  


She cleared her throat.  


No response.  


Coughed, again, a little louder.  


'What is it now?' he said, turning over.  


'You don't have to sleep on the floor,' she said, her voice just above a whisper.  


'I'm fine. Go to sleep.'  


'Really, you don't. The bed is ever so big. I don't mind sharing. It seems wrong-'  


'All the fucking talking,' he said, louder now. 'It's the cold, is that it? The cold that shuts you up? Soon as you get warm you start with the fucking chirping again?'  


Sansa bit her lip, her cheeks burning again. Well, she thought, affronted: he could sleep on the floor for all she cared. He could get chills from the draughts, he could lie there on the hard floor and freeze on his damp smelly cloak, and like it. She made a sound that expressed her sentiment perfectly, a throaty 'humph' and turned over in bed, her back to him.  


She had almost, finally, got back off to sleep again when she heard him sigh, and struggle to his feet.  


'Fucking move over, then,' he grumbled.  


She scooted over to the far side of the bed as quickly as she could - the cold side - just as he sank onto the bed. She clung on to the wooden bedframe to stop herself rolling back to the middle of the bed as his end sunk down under his weight. He did not get under the covers but lay on the top of the bed, his back to her. And almost immediately he started snoring.  


Sansa listened, her heart thumping. She had never heard him snore before. Had he really not slept, all of those long nights they camped? Not at all?  


She listened to the sounds, a deep rumbling, slow, regular, and the rattle of the window as the storm raged outside; she felt the warmth of him radiating through the thin woollen blankets, the weight of him in bed next to her, and she closed her eyes, and slept.


	2. Second Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowed in... Sansa manages to keep herself busy, Sandor has too much time to think...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a go at Sandor's POV in this chapter. I thought I might do the whole thing from Sansa's POV but I couldn't help myself...

Sansa woke up to a chilly room, and an empty bed. The bright light from the window told her that it had stopped snowing, and the wind had dropped. She felt a wave of disappointment at the thought that maybe Lana's father had been wrong, perhaps the storm was over and they could continue riding. In the cold, and the snow! And it was a long way to Winterfell. The Hound had said so.  


The fire had burned out, and the room felt damp with condensation. She clambered out of the bed and used the pot again, wrinkling her nose at the foul smell and disgusted to find it was much fuller than her little wee in the night could warrant. He'd pissed in it, too! And she'd slept through it. Well.  


The tin bath was half full of cold, grey water, soap scum floating forlornly on the surface of it. Unused to being confronted with the by-products of her ablutions in this way, Sansa spared a thought for the servants and the maids in the Red Keep who had cared for her so well; washed, scented, fed and clothed, as if she had been utterly helpless. Well, that needed to change. She had no maids here. She would have to learn to look after herself.  


She found her only spare dress in the bag that Sandor had brought up from the saddle, scrunched into a ball, not entirely dry and smelling musty. It would have to do. It was the plainest dress she had, dark grey, but even so it was embroidered and had red silk edging and did up at the back in a series of buttons. It was only because she had clearly lost weight since leaving the city that she managed to wriggle her way into it, and even then she had to leave the top buttons undone. She couldn't reach. Clothing for women who weren't expected to dress themselves. Perhaps the Hound would let her buy some fabric while they were here, so she could make something plainer; something that did up at the front.  


Something about the thought of the city made her cry. Hot tears spilled down her cold cheeks, still pink and sore from the winter winds she had endured yesterday. So many of them would be dead, now. She wondered about Shae, and the King. Perhaps he was dead.  


'I would have felt it,' she said aloud.  


She wiped her eyes. It wasn't that; she didn't want to go back, even for Shae. It was the sheer overwhelming relief of it, of being safe, whatever the Hound said. Wherever he was, she would be safe. He had said that nobody would hurt her, or he would kill them, and she believed him. However hateful he was, however rude, and smelly, and rough: he was all she had, and she was profoundly grateful.  


Enough tears, they were wasted on the past.  


She rubbed her eyes and set to work with the buckets, scooping the dirty water out of the bath until it was empty enough for her to lift it and tip the dregs into the bucket. Then she left it leaning against the wall so it could dry properly. She tried to lift both buckets but could not; so she concentrated on the emptier of the two, and carried it downstairs.  


The bar was empty, and cold, but the bigger room at the back was bustling with life: an older woman was stirring a pot on the fire, red cheeked and talking: '.... I said to them, I said, I'll not have you here in that condition, you pay your money the same as everyone else but nobody else talks to me like that, I said... oh!'  


She caught sight of Sansa in the doorway and directed her attention to her instead.  


'You shouldn't have bothered with the bucket, my dear, that's the girls' job, did you sleep well? Hmm? Would you like some gruel?'  


Lana had already taken the bucket out of Sansa's hands with a rueful look, and Maer was putting a spoon and a bowl on the table and pulling out the stool for Sansa to sit down. A steaming ladleful of gruel, greyish and thin, was poured into her bowl. She tasted a little, afraid it would be foul, but actually it didn't really taste of anything at all. Salty-sweet, and gritty, but it was warm and Sansa's stomach growled for the sheer joy of something other than rabbit or squirrel for breakfast.  


'Your father's already gone out,' the woman said to Sansa, and then turned to the younger girl and added, 'and you mind you go upstairs and sort that room out, Maer, and be quick.'  


'Gone out?' Sansa asked. 'Where?'  


'Gods, I dunno! Out in the snow somewhere, looking for a way out of the valley, I expect, but he won't find one. We're snowed in good and proper.'  


'But it's stopped snowing, hasn't it?'  


'Aye, for now. More on the way, though. But don't you worry your pretty head! We've plenty of grain for bread in the store, and the cow for milk, and there's beans and potatoes enough for us all for a while yet. And my, you are a pretty one, aren't you? And such a fine dress on you. Where are you from?'  


'Don't ask, ma,' Lana said. She came back into the room carrying Sansa's blue dress, good as new.  


'Oh!' Sansa said, taking it happily. 'Thank you so much!'  


Lana met her eyes and smiled. They were about the same age, Sansa realised.  


'I wondered if you have any fabric,' Sansa asked. 'Something plain. I'd like to try and make another dress, something a bit more practical for travelling. Do you have anything?'  


'I'm sure we can find something,' the woman said. 'Lana, take her out to the stores and see what's there.'  


It was just a few short steps between the back of the inn and the barn that served as a store, but the well trodden snow was still ankle deep. The fresh air seared into Sansa's lungs after the warm fug of the back room and the brightness of the light on the white snow hurt her eyes. She heard sounds to her left, and shaded the glare with her hand. The Hound was tramping up the hill, his breath clouding in front of him. He saw her and stopped, turned, and went back the way he had come.  


'He doesn't say much, does he?' Lana said, following Sansa's gaze.  


'He's not my father,' Sansa said.  


'No,' Lana replied. 'I didn't think he was.'

* * * * *

Sandor came back when it began to get dark, the clouds overhead already heavy once again with snow. There would be another load of it tonight, he thought. Not that it would make any difference: they were stuck here. Even if he could get Stranger through the snow that was settled on the road, higher up it was deeper, up to Sandor's waist. There was no way the horse would get through. He let out a heavy sigh at the thought of it. At least nobody could get to them, either. If there were any Lannister patrols in the area, they wouldn't be able to get through until the snow stopped, at least.  


He had thought it a mistake, to bring her here: where there were people, there were spies. And danger.  


He took one last look at the dark trees behind him before heading for the inn. If they'd stayed out in it, they would be dead by now. It had been the right thing to do.  


Sansa was in the back room, with the two girls, sitting by the fire with needlework in their laps, laughing. She looked up and caught his eye and and stopped laughing straight away.  


'Have you eaten?' he asked.  


She nodded, pale.  


'I'll be upstairs,' he said, and went.  


Damn it, there was something about her. He'd spent all day in the cold, brisk air, just to get her out of his head for a while, just for a bit of peace. All those long days he'd carried her in front of him, feeling the warm softness of her body nestled against his, hour after hour, while he tried to think about the road ahead and the price of a good sword and how many men it might take to bring down Cersei Lannister, and still his thoughts twisted themselves back around to her. Her bright hair, under his nose, still smelling faintly of lavender or sandalwood or whatever it was the maids had poured over it, last time she'd bathed. And the swell of her breasts under that snug blue dress, his favourite, of all the dresses she had, because it made her eyes into jewels, bright, bright blue.  


He couldn't tell her that, of course. He couldn't tell her anything. Could barely talk to her for fear of saying something that would give it away.  


Instead he concentrated on how he was going to get them both to Winterfell before the guards caught up with them, strung him up and gutted him, and took their time with whatever they were going to do to her. That thought was more sobering.  


Upstairs, the room was neat and tidy and still warm from the bakehouse below. The fire was laid but not lit; the bath and the dirty water had gone, the pot had been emptied and washed, and his cloak was folded into a neat pile. He picked it up and sniffed it suspiciously, expecting that someone might have washed it in the few short hours that he'd been gone, but it still stank when you got close. Never mind. At least he hadn't had to sleep with his face pressed into it, after all.  


He looked at the bed, neatly made. Toed off his boots and lay down on it with a groan. Looked up into the dark rafters over his head. Outside the wind had picked up again, throwing old snow at the window pane, smattering like sand.  


And she had invited him into her bed. So sweetly! Of course she had, for she was nothing if not polite. So perfectly sweet and good. And she would share her bed with an old, sour-faced dog who would bite her if he got half a chance.  


He smirked at the thought of it, and then remembered that actually nothing had happened, he had fallen asleep as soon as he'd laid his head, and he had slept better than he had done for months. Maybe even years. He had woken with the first dawn light, got up and walked to Sansa's side of the bed, found the pot and pissed in it, holding it at thigh level so that it wouldn't splash more than it had to. Pissed in the pot while watching her sleep, her hair spread out over the pillow like a fiery cloud, the only thing of colour in the grey room. She had not stirred, curled up into a tight ball with her knees close to her chest, her cheek resting on her hand.  


He had gone back to the other side of the bed and laid down, getting hard now that he'd emptied his bladder, just because he could hear her breathing. It had been a long time since he had had a woman in bed with him, still longer had one that had stayed with him long enough to fall asleep. His cock ached at her nearness and for an awkward moment he actually thought about whether he could manage to make himself come without shaking the bed or making enough noise to wake her up. Thought about it for a while, decided not to, fell asleep.  


Then he'd woken up properly an hour later and had found his boots and his leathers and had gone out without so much as looking at her.  


He stared at the rafters until it got too dark to see them, and then he turned over and slept.

* * * *

The room was in darkness when Sansa crept in, as quietly as she could. She had half expected him to come down to the bar and drink his fill of wine again, but as the hours passed she thought he must have fallen asleep.  


Good for him. He needed it, a proper rest.  


She had enjoyed today very much indeed. Lana had found her an old dress that had belonged to their grandmother, and together with Maer they had sat by the fire for most of the afternoon, unpicking all the seams, letting Sansa cut and fit the pieces to her own size, before beginning the long job of stitching it together. The girls' mother had watched them and thanked Sansa for showing them how to sew properly for a change, instead of all over the place, until it grew busy in the inn and they were sent to serve customers instead. Sansa stayed by the fire and stitched, and thought, and when her eyes began to ache from the strain of working by candlelight she stopped and helped the girls in the bar, trying to stay out of their way, but bringing dirty bowls and plates and goblets back to the kitchen to be washed. After a while she began to wash them as well, for sitting idly by while the girls worked so hard was quite difficult to do.  


Lana did not seem to mind, but her mother was anxious about it, taking things out of Sansa's hands, and asking if she shouldn't see to her father, and how it wouldn't do to have a guest thus employed like a skivy, and in the end she had sat at a table and eaten some bread and hard cheese, and then taken a candle up the stairs to their room, to keep the peace.  


Sandor was a dark shape on the bed, breathing deeply.  


The fire was unlit and the room was cold, but she thought it might wake him if she lit it, and besides, once she was in bed she should be warm enough. But then there was the problem of the dress. No matter how hard she wriggled and squirmed, she could not reach the buttons. She huffed in frustration and thought about going downstairs again to ask one of the girls for help, but then she heard the rumble of his voice from the bed.  


'Got fleas, have you?'  


'I can't reach the buttons. I'm sorry I woke you.'  


He heaved himself to a sitting position, the bed creaking alarmingly as he did so. 'Come here. I'll do it.'  


She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her hair over one shoulder. 'Can you see? Shall I bring the candle?'  


He grunted, and she felt thick fingers tugging at the buttons.  


'Two should do it,' she said.  


He undid four.  


She had to hold the dress up against herself when she stood up again, or it might have fallen around her ankles, and left her indecently exposed. She shuffled to the far side of the bed and cast a glance towards him. He was lying flat on his back, now, hands folded on his chest, looking up into the darkness.  


'Close your eyes,' she said.  


'I'm not looking at you.'  


'Close your eyes.'  


'Fuck sake,' he said, but did as he was told.  


She slipped out of the dress and climbed into bed in her shift, slipping between the sheets which, despite his presence on the bed, were icy cold. She huddled into a ball with her back to him, and tried to think of the heat of the summer, the way the sun baked down on her back when she was walking through the gardens below the walls of the Red Keep. The hot baths that Shae would fill for her, where she could stretch out her toes and rinse her hair again and again. It wasn't working. Her teeth began chattering.  


'You're friendly with those girls,' he said.  


'They're kind. I've not told them anything.'  


'Don't.'  


_I don't have any friends_ , she thought. _I have nobody at all, now, except... you._  


'Where did you go today?' she asked, because she still didn't feel at all sleepy. Perhaps if she could warm the bed up a little, it would help.  


'Just for a walk.'  


'In the snow?'  


'No, on the fucking beach. Of course in the snow.'  


'Why are you always so rude?'  


'Why are you always talking?'  


'Because I'm lonely!' she said, louder than she meant to. 'I'm lonely. That's why.'  


She buried her face in her hands and sniffed, and tried to block him out.  


'Don't start snivelling.'  


She ignored him. Hateful man! And now she was too cross to sleep.  


To her sudden shock she felt his hand on her shoulder, heavy and solid, and what must be his thumb stroking across her shoulderblade. 'Never mind, little bird. At least you've got a bed to sleep in.'  


She turned over in bed so she was on her back, and his hand fell awkwardly across her chest before quickly withdrawing.  


'Don't you get lonely?' she asked.  


'I'm used to it,' he said.  


She could see the outline of his face, the unscarred side, the handsome side. She didn't mind his scars anymore, she had got used to them, the way he was used to being lonely; it was a part of him, Sandor, just the way he was. One thing caused another, didn't it? He was always alone because he looked so terrifying, and nobody ever wanted to talk to him. It was a sad way to be.  


'Why aren't you married?' she asked.  


He barked a laugh into the chilly air. 'Why the fuck d'you think? I'm not exactly anyone's idea of a good match.'  


She didn't answer that, because in her heart she thought that really he was actually very good husband material indeed: strong, handsome, protective, resourceful. Loyal, too. If it wasn't for the grumpiness and the general aggression, he'd be much more appealing. If he bothered to talk to people, to get to know them and to let them see that he wasn't quite as awful as he made out, he probably would have a string of women after him. And she would be one of them!  


'Don't you want to get married?'  


'No.'  


'That's quite sad.'  


'Spare me your pity. Go to sleep.'

* * * *

She was mercifully quiet for a while - thank the gods. She had either gone off into one of her sulks, which she usually did when he finally managed to offend her, or she was asleep. He lay still in the hope that it was the latter, not wanting to wake her up and be forced into more conversation.  


_Why aren't you married?_  


He could not imagine having a wife; someone always there to complain about something, to slow him down, demand he do things or behave in a certain way. On the other hand: a nice warm cunt to fuck, on a regular basis. Wives did not do that, though, if all of those overheard conversations in taverns were to be believed; that's why husbands ended up spending all their wages in the brothels. Quicker to just visit a brothel in the first place, rather than take a wife: cheaper, too.  


Unless that wife was Sansa. Surely if you were married to her, she would run out of things to say, eventually? And then there would just be the joy of sleeping next to her, of waking up next to her every day; the bliss of being able to run your hands over that body whenever you wanted to, burying your face in her hair, running your tongue down the side of that porcelain throat; wrapping those long pale legs around your shoulders and drinking in her soft, sweet cunt..  


He lifted his head slightly and looked across at her. Her eyes were open. Shit.  


And her lips were moving, rapidly - was she praying?  


'I'm so cold,' she said, and the act of speaking made her teeth chatter alarmingly.  


'Light the fire,' he said.  


'Can't you put your arm around me?'  


'What? No.'  


'Why not? It's like when we were on the horse. You're dressed, aren't you?'  


'I'm not your personal bedwarmer.'  


She turned her back on him again, curled around. Shifted back in the bed a little, so she was nearer to him. 'Please,' she said.  


_Dear fucking gods._  


He turned to her and laid his arm across her waist. She pushed back against him, snuggling, the curve of her spine against his chest. Her arse cheeks pressing into his lap. The scent of her hair against his nose. He breathed in and held his breath.  


The price of a good sword. Cersei Lannister. Robert Baratheon, and his great expanse of hairy white belly, gored by a boar. The names of all the Kingsguard, in order...  


'Thank you,' she whispered.  


She was always good with her pleases and thank yous, chirping them like a pretty little bird. Even now, out of her cage, she was still thanking him, and whispering 'please'. Then he could not stop himself thinking of her naked, her own fingers tangled in what must surely be a bright thatch of dark auburn curls between her legs, looking up at him with those jewel-bright eyes, murmuring, _please, Sandor, please..._  


'What's that?'  


'What?'  


'Is that... is that you?'  


She did not sound alarmed by it. Just, perhaps, curious; grinding her soft arse against his cock. Even through the sheets, the blankets, and his leather breeches, he could feel it. He heaved a deep breath in. Robert Baratheon's old boots. Joffrey's face. The number of steps in the Sept of Baelor...  


'Stop it,' he growled.  


'I'm not doing anything!'  


'Stop... moving.'  


He waited, and waited, and stayed still: and eventually he heard her breathing deepen to a sigh, and she was asleep. He could have moved away, but he waited a while longer, breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her radiating back at him, the rise and fall of her chest.  


He could marry her, he thought, if this is what it would be like; and then he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Sandor, too? What do you think? Thank you for all the notes!


	3. Third Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa senses trouble...
> 
> (Respect and love to GRRM for the wee quote towards the end of this chapter. I own none of his characters and have no right to write about them. How I wish I did!)

The storm woke Sansa just before dawn. The wind was raging, buffeting against the walls so hard that, even in bed, Sansa could feel the force of it. Sandor's arm was still around her, as if he had barely moved all night - although his hand was now near her chest instead of around her waist - and he was breathing deeply, his head resting on her hair. She couldn't move without waking him, so she lay still for a while, listening to the wind.  


She tilted her head down to see the outline of his massive hand, curled open and relaxed; slipped her own hand over the top of it, tiny by comparison. Dark hairs on the back of his hand, surprisingly soft. She pulled the hand up to her face and kissed it.  


She was not even sure why she did it, but almost immediately he breathed in sharply and moved his arm, and twisted round onto his back, and groaned, and let out a fart.  


She wrinkled her nose, and pretended she hadn't heard.  


'There's another storm,' she said, rather pointlessly.  


He grunted, rubbed his hand over his face, said: 'Aye. We're here for a while,' and then, a moment later, began to snore.  


She lay still but without his body curved around her she was getting cold, so she got up and put on her blue dress, and went to light the fire, and from there the day seemed to slip past like a trout in a stream. She helped Lana make bread, and gruel - yesterday's, with a handful of currants and two withered apples chopped and thrown in - then she went back to her dressmaking, the girls set to their needlework tasks next to her, as if they could absorb Sansa's skill just by their proximity. Lana grumbled about it but her mother insisted she stayed put, that it wasn't every day such a talented seamstress found her way to their door and Lana should be grateful. Lana glowered and Sansa rolled her eyes, and then they giggled together. Maer, who said very little, concentrated hard on her stitches and was already quicker about them than she had been yesterday.  


When the door opened and the first of the customers stumbled into the bar, Maer was instructed to serve and Lana to stay where she was.  


'I bloody hate sewing,' she said at last. 'How do you stand it?'  


'It's easy to enjoy something when it's all you have to do,' Sansa said, frowning over a snapped thread.  


'You're a lady, then. I thought you were.'  


Sansa flushed a little. 'Not any more.'  


It was a half-lie, for here, in this place, and in the company of the Hound, she could lay claim to no riches or privileges.  


'And him upstairs?'  


Sansa raised her eyes to the stairs, as if he would thunder down them at any moment. He was probably still asleep, although it was late morning and he had never slept later than her.  


'Is he any good?' Lana asked, grinning.  


Now she was confused. 'Good at what?'  


A generous nudge of Lana's elbow, and the needle went in to Sansa's finger.  


'Good in bed, of course! Is he?'  


'Oh! We don't - I mean - no. I don't know!'  


Is that really what Lana thought? That he was her husband?  


'Sorry,' Lana said, softening. 'I didn't mean to embarrass you.'  


'He's sharing my bed, but - not like that. Just to keep me warm. Although-'  


'What?'  


The thought had been playing on Sansa's mind all morning - what she had felt last night, the hard lump against the small of her back, the size of it, the heat radiating off his body. 'I think, last night - he was - he was -'  


'What?'  


'You know. Like when you see a stallion with a mare.'  


'He was hard?'  


'Shh. Please!'  


'How do you know? Was he naked?'  


'No! I just... felt something, pressing against my back.'  


'And? Was it big?'  


Sansa shrugged. 'I suppose so. Like a horse, as I said.'  


Lana's eyes widened. Just then her mother came in and tutted, so she bent her head to the sewing once again. Footsteps came down the stairs - the Hound. He paused in the doorway. Both girls looked at him, deliberately expressionless. He frowned slightly and went through to the bar, Lana's mother in hot pursuit: 'Good morning! Now is it ale you'll be having, or tea? And we have some fresh gruel, or if you can wait awhile there will be bread and cheese...'

* * * *  


Sandor spent most of the day in the stables with Stranger and the other horses, skinny, tired-looking beasts who seemed grateful for the interruption to their daily toils. The wind dropped later in the day but the snow fell steadily and thickly, and it barely seemed to get light. By the time Sandor crossed the yard to the inn, the snow that had been cleared yesterday was almost knee deep in places. The bar was even more empty than it had been the day before - villagers snowed in to their houses, or perhaps without work they had run out of money - which meant that he could no longer hide in the corner. The woman who owned the inn kept trying to talk to him and once she started, she would not shut up unless he bought something - another flagon of wine, a plate of bread and cheese, and smoked ham - so he was rapidly working his way through the bag of gold he had brought with him from King's Landing.  


At least Sansa seemed happy enough. She and the elder girl were thick as thieves, gossiping in the corner of the kitchen. There was no stopping it, and besides, what else was she going to do? While she was talking to the girl she wasn't talking to him, and perhaps later she would be all talked out.  


Currently he was two jugs of wine in, and about to call for a third - just enough to take the edge off the seething pit of something, he wasn't quite sure what, that was souring his belly and making him feel itchy and feverish. It was this place, he thought - or, no, it was being stuck in this place. Being trapped anywhere was enough to make him rage, and here there was nothing he could rage at. Was he going to swing his sword at the lead-coloured sky, at the relentless snow? Of course not. So he kept those feelings pushed down in his gullet, drowned them in cheap red wine.  


The girl brought him another jug, without asking. This time she took the stool beside him, and sat down.  


He looked up in surprise. Two of the other tables were occupied - farm lads on one, who'd been drinking the same jugs of ale for more than an hour; and an old man, asleep on his arm, at the other. Neither of the farm lads had paid him any attention at all. The innkeeper, a man of very few words and even less inclination to do any work, was slumped in his chair by the fire, a line of drool threaded from his protruding lower lip to the front of his tunic.  


'My name's Lana,' the girl said. 'What's yours?'  


'None of your fucking business,' he said.  


'I was only being friendly,' Lana said mildly.  


'I don't need any friends.'  


She glanced back at the door to the kitchen. Sansa was out of sight, but presumably still sitting by the fire with her needlework.  


'I don't think you're going to get much joy with that one,' Lana said. 'You'd be better off with a girl who knows what they're doing.'  


_Oh aye_ , he thought. He put his cup of wine slowly down on the table. 'Got someone in mind?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.  


Lana smiled, showing uneven teeth. It made her prettier, which wasn't saying much. She leaned closer and placed her hand on his thigh, moved it higher. 'I'm very good. And very reasonable.'  


'You're very young,' he said.  


'Most men seem to like me,' she said chirpily.  


'I'm not most men.'  


'No,' she said, glancing at his bicep. 'I can see that. That's why I thought I'd come to see if you were looking for a bit of... pleasure. A bit of relief.'  


He couldn't help a smirk at that, and she seemed to take that as encouragement, for her hand slipped higher and around until, under the table, she was cupping his balls through his breeches. Before his body could react, he grabbed her by the wrist and twisted.  


'Ow!' Lana said, rubbing the skin. 'That was mean.'  


He looked at her sourly. 'Just fuck off, will you? I'm not interested.'  


Lana glared at him, and raised a prim eyebrow. 'Not yet, maybe. Let's have a few more days stuck here and you sleeping with her Ladyship and you'll be begging me for it.'  


_I wouldn't beg you for it if I was stuck here for a year_ , he thought.  


He stayed for another hour, until the farm boys went back out into the snow, and the old man was finally roused - Sandor had been placing bets with himself that he was actually dead - and sent on his way. The innkeeper began locking up and blowing out candles and Sandor took that as a sign that his presence was no longer wanted. He looked in at the kitchen, but Sansa was not there. At some point she must have gone up the stairs to bed, without him noticing.  


The words 'sleeping with her Ladyship' had troubled him a good deal. It was obvious to anyone who spent longer than five minutes with Sansa that she was not lowborn, so it was unsurprising that Lana had assumed she was a lady. And, to be fair to the girl, he was sharing a room with her - so what was she going to think? Presumably the innkeeper and the vociferous wife had also supposed that she was sharing her bed with him, and from there most people would assume that fucking was involved.  


_Because you wouldn't, would you_ , he thought. You wouldn't be, as a fully functioning male, able to share a bed with Sansa Stark and not want more. That would be... unnatural.  


He was still thinking about it when he opened the door to their room. The fire had been burning for some time in the grate and the room was almost hot, just for a change. Sansa was lying on the bed, on her side, turned away from him, still fully dressed.  


'You awake?' he asked quietly, hoping not to disturb her if she was asleep.  


There was no reply.  


He pulled off his boots and contemplated a piss. That would definitely wake her up. Once he broke the seal on it after a night's drinking he would be pissing like a fucking waterfall. He could take the pot out on to the landing but that was a bit too uncouth, even for him - besides, he might encounter that fucking girl again, whatever her name was, and give her the wrong idea. He could wait.  


He eased himself slowly onto the bed and lay on his back, gazing up into the rafters. Sleeping with her Ladyship, he thought. So far it wasn't all his heart desired, if he was honest, even if it was a lot more than he deserved. He let out a sigh. He had slept late this morning with nothing really to get up for, and now, despite the wine, he was not tired.  


He glanced across at Sansa, motionless, beside him. Something about the tension in her shoulders and the quiet evenness of her breath told him that she was not asleep. He thought about saying something, but actually it was good lying here with her, without her firing questions at him, or telling him the intricate details of her fucking needlework.  


Quiet, though. Even the wind had died down.  


Then he heard the tiniest of sounds, a little sniff.  


'What's the matter with you?' he asked. She was definitely awake.  


He saw her shake her head, almost imperceptibly.  


'You ill?'  


Another shake.  


He put his hand on her shoulder, uncertain of what he was doing, but wanting to see her face. He pulled her towards him, not roughly; she resisted a little, and he pulled hard enough to bring her onto his back.  


Her face, wet with tears, her eyes closed. He saw her throat move as she swallowed.  


'What the fuck's the matter?'  


'I'm just... sad,' she said quietly. 'Don't worry about it.'  


Sandor was fully prepared to take people at their word, especially women, especially when they quite clearly meant the opposite of what they were saying. It's fine, I'm fine, don't worry: great, thanks, I won't. If they didn't like it, he reasoned, they should bloody well say what they meant in the first place.  


But Sansa, oh, Sansa. Why did he care so much?  


'We'll be out of here soon enough,' he said, hoping that would help.  


And then to his complete surprise, she turned to face him, nestled her head into his shoulder and put her arm across his chest. And pulled him tight. He was too taken aback to say anything. Why the fuck did she choose tonight to stop talking? Every other night she'd be reporting in, telling him exactly what she was thinking, rambling on about life and what he was supposed to be thinking about it and the price of bread. And now she was just... whatever the fuck it was she was doing... and he had no idea what was going on.  


Gods, he needed a piss.  


'What are you doing?' he asked, at last.  


'Nothing.'  


Silence.  


Clearly NOT fucking nothing, he thought, keeping warm was one thing but it was fucking roasting in the room - so hot that he'd need to take his shirt off in a minute, or he'd be sweating like the High Septon in a Baelish brothel. Tentatively he moved the arm she was resting her head on, brought it up her back. Not stroking, exactly. Not quite that.  


Did he feel her shiver? Her cool hand, resting on his shirt. Her fingers, playing with the string that fastened his shirt at his throat.  


'I don't mind, you know,' she said.  


Here we go, he thought.  


'Mind what?'  


'If you... if you went with her.'  


'Went with who?'  


'Lana.'  


Light dawned. 'Why the fuck would I do that?'  


'You're a man. I know you... need things.'  


'You know nothing at all about what men need, least of all me.'  


A little pause, while this sunk in. What had she seen? Or had that little serving bitch told her that she was going to seduce him? Like she ever had a hope.  


All he could see of Sansa was the top of her hair, and her long, elegant fingers on his chest, rising and falling as he breathed. What could he say? And besides, why did she even care?  


She lifted her head, then, and he got those bright blue eyes full force, closer than she'd ever been. He could have barely moved, and kissed her.  


'So you didn't?'  


'Didn't what?'  


'Didn't go with her? But you were downstairs for ages and ages after I came up. I saw you sitting together. Her hand was on your leg.'  


'Aye, that happened.'  


'But-'  


'I told her to fuck off. And then I sat and drank wine.'  


'Oh. You did?'  


'Aye.'  


She was still staring at him. He couldn't look away, even as the small frown knitted her eyebrows together. Hells, he could have just reached out and smoothed the frown away with his thumb. He had to squeeze his hand into a fist to stop himself doing exactly that.  


She rested her head back down on his chest and he almost sighed with relief.  


She was quiet for a long time.  


'I think I preferred you chirping,' he said.  


She made a small sound, like a hmph. After a few moments she turned her back to him again, and this time, almost without thinking, he turned with her and fitted his body around hers, his arm around her waist, exactly as it had been for most of last night.  


A long pause. He was almost asleep.  


'I have a question,' she murmured.  


'Hmm.'  


'Would you have told _me_ to - you know? If I put my hand on your knee.'  


He did not answer for a long time, thinking of different ways to dismiss the question, thinking of asking her if she thought that was appropriate, if she had any idea what she was saying. He thought about ignoring it completely.  


After a long time, when he thought she might be asleep, he finally replied: 'No.'  


She gave no indication that she had heard.  


_A hound will die for you_ , he remembered saying to her, a lifetime ago: _a hound will die for you, but never lie to you_. Sansa Stark could put her hand wherever she chose, and he would never turn her down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Lana, she's a right minx, isn't she? Can't blame her for trying, though. 
> 
> I would.
> 
> Hmmm... I think it might be time for some smut, don't you? Tomorrow night, things start to get a little more heated...


	4. Fourth Night

Sansa woke up face to face with the Hound.  


In the night she had turned in the circle of his arms, and now her face was tucked in to his chin. He was - for the first time - under the covers, and at some point during the night he had used the pot, if the smell in the room was anything to go by, and removed his shirt.  


His arms were around her loosely, his eyes were closed, and he was properly, deeply asleep.  


Her cheek was tickled by his beard, which seemed to extend down his neck and onto his chest, which was covered in dense, dark hair. Her hands were nestled in it. So comfortable was she, held like this, that it took a moment for the intimacy of her situation to sink in. She felt safe, and protected, but then something else hit her entirely unexpectedly, a surge in the pit of her belly that made her want to shiver with excitement.  


Yesterday evening she had got up from her needlework to go to light the fire in their room, so that they did not have to go to bed cold; and a glance in the bar had revealed Lana sitting close to the Hound, whispering in his ear, her hand sliding up his thigh.  


She shrank back into the doorway, not understanding what she had seen but knowing it was very wrong. She heard Lana say, 'I'm very good,' and she saw the smirk on the Hound's face, before she darted up the stairs to their room, her eyes full of tears.  


He had said that he told her to... go away. He had said that he drank wine alone and then came up to bed, and she believed him, because he had said he would never lie to her, and he hadn't. He could have done so many times, but he was always honest, even when it wasn't what she wanted to hear. If he didn't want to tell her something, then he just didn't speak. She'd had enough of those grunts to understand what those responses meant.  


He wasn't the sort of man you could touch, just like that. You couldn't just - touch him, touch his leg, and not get your head bitten off for it. Even Sansa knew that. What on earth was Lana doing? Maybe if she had asked first, he might have gone with her after all?  


She didn't even understand why she was so upset, not to begin with. Sobbing her heart out on the bed she'd shared with him, chastely, for two nights, she thought of Lana and the Hound together and what they might be doing, in the barn, or in the room Lana shared with Maer, and all she could think was _I want it to be me_. That was a shock in itself.  


And here she was, Sansa who had never been with a man, Sansa who didn't know what she was doing, with her fingers lightly stroking the fur on Sandor Clegane's chest. She pressed a little harder, felt the solid warmth of his muscles, hard under the skin. Doing this with him asleep felt deliciously naughty - the same feeling she had had watching him standing naked in the bath, even just very quickly before disgust took over.  


_But he doesn't mind me touching him_ , she thought. He said as much.  


Well. He had said he wouldn't tell her to... go away, which wasn't quite the same thing as not minding, and very definitely not the same as him actually liking it.  


It was still dark, although she could hear noises from the kitchen below, so it must be morning. There was something about the darkness that made this easier, less awkward, finding herself face to face with a man's naked body - although probably he still had his breeches on, she reasoned. He wouldn't be that shameless. Would he? She was still wearing her blue dress, now horrendously crumpled no doubt, so there was at least some propriety still on her part.  


_I should like to be naked with him_.  


The thought came out of nowhere and with it another surge down below, a fizz of excitement. Would it happen? What if she asked him? She thought of her mother, and Arya, and Jeyne Poole, and stuffy Ser Rodrick, and all those other Winterfell nobles who would be shocked and scandalised by the very thought of what she was doing right at this very moment, in bed with a half-naked Lannister bodyguard. Arya would be livid! She'd made her feelings perfectly clear when it came to the Hound, hadn't she? She absolutely despised him! Sansa tried to use all that outrage to dredge up some sense of moral indignation, some feeling that maybe he was taking advantage of her, putting her in a scandalous position like this, but nothing came. All of it was overridden by the delicious naughtiness, the sense that nobody was here, nobody was watching and nobody cared. She could do whatever she wanted.  


In fact, she could probably slide her hand down under the covers and feel that hard length of his manhood that had been so shamelessly pushing against her back the night before last. 

He wouldn't stop her, would he? He had said he wouldn't. She could probably rouse herself now, take off her dress, and order him to take off whatever he was still wearing, and lie with him as husband and wife. Whatever that really meant.  


She stayed still, shocked at herself, because the thought of all that was really quite scary. She didn't know what she was doing. Lying in his arms like this was one thing, but demanding he undress and take her felt, actually, more than a little bit dangerous.  


She thought back to her stories of love, the ones she had read secretly with Jeyne, when they were young and didn't understand anything. Women who sighed and knights who went out to fight and die for them. And if something were to happen, it should start with a kiss.  


Heart thumping, she raised her head a little, fidgeted in his arms until she was level with his face. The handsome side pressed into the pillow, the scarred side visible, his lips slightly parted. She could smell sour wine on his breath, right before she pressed her lips very gently to his.  


Nothing happened. He did not move. She watched him closely for a moment, and then did it again.  


He breathed in sharply and she shrank back a little, terrified suddenly of his reaction. But then he seemed to settle.  


Her lips were tingling with it, the feeling of his mouth under hers, his beard and moustache rough under her soft skin. She did it again, a little harder this time, moving her lips against his. Her hand came up and cupped his cheek, and then she moved her mouth across to kiss the scars, feeling the hard skin there where his beard ended.  


And then he moved, and she heard his voice, shockingly deep and sudden in the silence:  


'What the fuck are you doing?'  


She squeaked and shrank back. 'Kissing you,' she said.  


'What for?'  


She hesitated. He didn't sound pleased about it, instead he sounded positively annoyed. 'Because I wanted to see what it felt like,' she whispered.  


He backed off, then pulled his arm roughly from under her neck and turned over, his back to her.  


'Did I do it wrong?' she asked.  


He didn't answer for a while, then he scratched his bare shoulder and said mildly, 'That's not how I'd kiss someone, put it that way.'  


The shame of it stung her. 'Why did you take your shirt off?' she demanded, as if he'd given her wordless permission to kiss him by the sheer lunacy of being in her bed half-clothed.  


'Because you were trying to roast me alive last night,' he grumbled.  


Well, she thought, getting out of bed. So much for romance.

* * * *  


When he eventually made it downstairs, Sandor found the household in a state of some agitation. Lana and her sister were carrying chairs in from the barn, across the kitchen and into the bar. Through the open back door he could see snow falling, not as heavily as yesterday, but relentless. A gust of wind brought snow over the threshold. Sansa was standing at the fireplace, a hand jauntily on one hip, the other stirring whatever was in the pot. The innkeeper was rolling a barrel into the bar and his wife was, as usual, issuing orders and complaining. Two young men who might have been the farm hands from yesterday were arranging the chairs as the girls brought them.  


Sansa looked over her shoulder. 'Want some stew?' she asked.  


He sat at the table in the kitchen and Sansa set a bowl and a spoon next to him.  


'You've made yourself at home,' he said, raising an eyebrow.  


'There's going to be a storyteller,' she said, ignoring him. She was smiling and for the first time since he'd taken her through the Bloody Gate, she actually looked happy.  


He spooned his stew and watched the comings and goings.  


'Someone from the village,' Sansa said. 'Apparently this is what they do when they've been snowed in a while. The storyteller decides on the night, and then whole village comes to the inn, and they tell stories and have singing and music and food, and everyone cheers up. Lana told me.'  


At that moment Lana crossed the kitchen floor, eyeing him warily.  


'You talked to Lana? You friends again?'  


Sansa shrugged. 'It's fine,' she said.  


When he'd eaten, he went out to the stables. Stranger was finding his forced confinement difficult and was beating his hooves against the wooden walls. The boy who was tasked with minding the horses was terrified of him, and refused to go anywhere near him. But the yard and the track leading to the fields had been cleared somewhat by the villagers and so Sandor risked saddling up the beast and taking him out. The snow was light, today, and Sandor looked up to the single road leading up the hill and out of the village, wondering if perhaps tomorrow it might be passable. At the moment it was still too deep. He rode up to the bank of snow that, in places, was head height, and looked up to the pass and saw the drifts. There was no way they could get out yet.  


Down towards the fields in the valley the snow was not so bad and Stranger skittered with excitement at the thought of a run. Sandor had to hold him back for the paths were icy in places. As it was he was risking Stranger's neck and his own. But the beast needed fresh air, or he'd end up killing the stable lad or one of the other horses.  


Sansa had kissed him, this morning. He'd woken with his arms around her, her soft hand against his scars, her mouth fluttering like a butterfly against his. It was too much to stand. He'd had to turn away.

* * * * 

'I said, it's fine,' Sansa said.  


She was helping Lana fold sheets in the laundry, while Maer trotting in and out with piles of clothes. As well as providing the village with food and drink, they also took in laundry, and today was wash day, along with all the other excitement.  


'I thought you were finding things difficult with him,' Lana said. 'I thought - you know. I could help. Ease the pressure.'  


'Very good of you,' Sansa said, with as wide a smile as she could manage with gritted teeth.  


'So you do like him, then,' Lana said.  


Sansa thought about it and decided to be honest. 'Yes,' she said. And then she added, 'but who knows what he thinks about it. And I don't know what I'm doing.'  


Lana smirked at this. 'Well, make sure you pay attention tonight,' she said.  


'Tonight?'  


'Old Nan Pynch,' she said. 'The storyteller? I daresay they won't be the same stories you've heard in your fancy castle, wherever it is.'  


'You mean-'  


'Depends on how much ale she puts away, of course. But if you stay to the end you'll be in no doubt about what goes where.'

* * * * 

'Over there,' Sansa said, pulling him by the sleeve. 'I want to sit over there.'  


There were seats all over the bar, some of them with tables where a jug of wine or several could be placed, some of them within easy reach of the innkeeper and more wine, some of them even had cushions. But no, Sansa was choosing to spend what could be some hours right in the far corner, the darkest corner, on a low bench against the wall.  


'Don't you want to see what's going on?' he asked.  


'Not really. As long as I can hear.'  


'Why don't you sit there, then, and I'll sit near the wine,' he said.  


'No,' she said, very firmly. 'We're sitting together.'  


'Are we,' he said, under his breath.  


He could think of better things to be doing with this evening - cleaning the mud and ice off his boots, polishing the saddle for the fifth time, staring into space. Any of them preferable to listening to some old bint ramble on about giants and sprites and magic flowers. But as long as he could drink enough wine, maybe he'd fall asleep and wake up when it was all over.  


They took their seats on the low bench, which was uncomfortably small and barely big enough for the both of them. The room was filling up, red-cheeked villagers tramping snow through the doorway and calling for ale. Before the innkeeper got too busy Sandor asked for four jugs of wine, which he lined up neatly on the floor under the bench, within easy reach and out of sight of anyone who might not have enough coin for their own.  


He poured a cup for himself and a cup for Sansa, next to him, who was fidgeting with excitement, clapping her hands when she saw three men enter carrying lutes and pipes and a drum. She drank the wine in one distracted gulp like it was berry juice, too excited to care.  


Within twenty minutes the room was full. Loud voices and laughter, the smell of thirty or more unwashed bodies, the sounds of the lute and the pipe playing a merry little tune that nobody was listening to.  


'That must be her!' Sansa said, getting to her feet.  


An old crone wearing an astonishing mustard wool cloak had entered, and space was made for her beside the fire. Gradually things began to settle down.  


Sansa craned her neck. 'I can't see,' she grumbled.  


'Fucksake,' he muttered, and heaved her onto his lap. Higher up, now, she could see over the tops of all those heads to where the old woman with a glint in her eye was readying her first tale.  


Off she went, beginning with the story about the stag and the doe. He'd heard this one before, and surely Sansa had, too. Or maybe not. She was perched on his knee, perfectly still, her back straight, looking all eager and bright-eyed. He reached for his cup of wine, nearly tipping her off in the process. She steadied herself with a hand on his arm, pulled it round her waist.  


He drank his wine and stayed still for a moment, trying to remember the last time he'd had a woman on his lap. He couldn't remember it being a particularly enjoyable feeling, and he couldn't remember details: just a bony little rump grinding itself into his crotch for ages, until he finally managed to respond. He'd been drunk, of course. The only way he could ever really stand being with a woman was when he was drunk. It wasn't the fucking; that part was easy enough once his cock took over - no, not that. It was the looks they gave him. The pity at his face, or the horror at it. One or the other, or sometimes both. But no woman could ever look at him without it. More than once he'd been nearly there, balls-deep inside a kitchen maid or the daughter of one of the grooms, and they'd opened their eyes and looked at him and he'd seen that fear flitting across their face and he'd ended it. Stood up and pulled up his breeches, tucked his still-hard cock inside and left.  


'...and with that, he turned back...'  


They all knew this one. As the tale went on the villagers joined in, shouting the refrain and waving their cups in the air.  


'...and she was never the same again!'  


A cheer went up, howls of laughter, as if they'd never heard it before. Then there were a few songs, and Sansa clapped and sang along once she got the tune, and jiggled, and he tried to drink his wine without spilling it. He poured her another in an effort to keep still, and she drank it down again as if she drank quarts of wine every day of her life. Perhaps it would make her sleepy, he reasoned, and then he could wake her up when it was all over.  


Then he noticed her shocked little face and he vaguely recognised the tune:  


'...Sing along, Jenny, sing with the birds, it's a wonderful song but it's all about turds!'  


He knew what was coming, watched with barely concealed amusement as her cheeks turned pinker:  


'...She ran to the window, stuck out her arse  
Just at that moment a Septon did pass  
He heard the strange noise, so he gazed up on high  
A mighty big turd hit him right in the eye!'  


The whole room erupted with the chorus once more, just as he downed another cup of wine. It was going to be a long night if Sansa couldn't cope with this one.  


'Sing along, Jenny, sing with the birds! You know what you're doing when it comes to the turds!'  


After that it was the even rowdier one about the man in the moon, which they all knew to a man. Sandor couldn't even hear the musicians anymore, just the thumping of cups on tables and the many shouting voices, scarcely in tune:  


'...If all them young ladies was mares in a stable  
Then I'd be the groom, mounting all I was able!'  


'Ohhhh...roll your leg over, roll your leg over, roll your leg over the man in the moon!'  


He noticed Sansa wasn't clapping anymore.  


When the song finished there was a good deal of chair scraping as the assembled villagers rushed for more ale, ale for Old Nan Pynch, and for an outside piss for those who couldn't hold it much longer. Sandor eased Sansa off his numb leg and back on to the bench and went made his way through the throng to the main door of the inn. Outside, several men were standing in a line pissing into the bushes opposite, whilst women stood back and hooted at them and watched like it was all part of the entertainment. He made his way round the side to where it was quieter before he relieved himself. The whole thing was making him antsy. Too many people, too much noise. And Sansa, necking the wine. He didn't want her drunk. More to the point, he didn't want to be drunk and in Sansa's company. This was a shocking thought, and he probed it a little as he made his way back to the front door.  


That was it. He didn't trust himself.  


Sansa was still sitting on the bench, waiting for him, chewing on a hunk of bread. She offered half to him and he took it. Before he could say any more, she had settled in his lap again.  


Old Nan was clearly tanked up to the back teeth on ale, Sandor thought, as the crone made her way shakily back to her seat. The lamps and the candles were extinguished - for atmosphere, he supposed - apart from three candles at Nan's table, so the crowd - those who were still sober enough to pay attention - could see.  


And there followed the tale of Kaya and Jack. Sansa wouldn't have heard this one, he thought, but he'd heard it quite a few times, even as a boy at Casterly Rock. Perhaps it was the turd song that had inspired Old Nan Pynch to tell this one.  


'There was an old man,' the crone began, 'with a lovely young wife called Kaya...'  


A bawdy cheer erupted from the crowd at this.  


'Here we go,' Sandor muttered. Sansa leaned back against him, no longer prim and upright. Either it was the wine or the stories, he thought. Something had made her relax. She turned a little and nestled against his chest. He took a deep breath in. At what point was he going to stop this? Was he going to stop it?  


Was he fuck.  


'...and there was a young man called Jack...'  


_Here we go._  


'...whose cock was hard and as big as a baby's arm!'  


Another cheer. Against his chest, he felt Sansa snigger.  


Poor old Jack was being led astray by the lovely Kaya, who fucked him senseless every night and then made him leave: '....as soon as she wailed her pleasure, but LONG before he could reach his!'  


'Shame,' the crowd sang, 'for shame!'  


And the old man who pretended to be deaf because he couldn't stand his wife's nagging - which was fair enough, Sandor thought, idly, swigging from his cup again - only he wasn't as deaf as Kaya thought he was.  


'....and Jack was left with his cock as hard and as big as a... MARROW!'  


But poor Jack was forsaken again, not allowed to spend inside the lovely Kaya, loveliest woman in the land. And in Sandor's breeches, despite the wine, stirred by the thought of the temptress Kaya having flame-red hair and by Sansa's lovely arse nestled against it, his own cock was at full stand and threatening to explode. And he didn't actually care what she thought any more, although he didn't think she was thinking anything about him. She was fidgeting again, though, which wasn't helping. He could feel the heat from her cheek but she was keeping her face tucked into his neck. His hand had moved to her thigh to hold her steady. Hold her tight.  


'...and outside Jack was calling, 'Kaya! Kaya!' and inside the old man heard-'  


'Fire!' they all shouted. 'Fire!'  


They all knew what was coming. A pot full of piss from under the bed, turds and all, chucked out of the window and all over poor Jack. His ardour quenched, he went on to rue the day he had cuckolded the old man. The end.  


He felt Sansa's breath, hot, against his throat.  


'It's going to get worse,' he warned her, quietly.  


'I don't mind,' she said.  


Her hand over his. Pulling him tighter, higher.  


He didn't need to be asked twice. The room barely quietened for the next story - and it was one he'd not heard before. A local folk tale about the beautiful Myrah, the King's daughter - how appropriate - who was sent out by her stepmother to gather berries in the winter. And poor Myrah came across an ugly old troll - of course - who agreed to find her berries and save her life, if she would sit on his cock.  


'...and she sat... and she wriggled... and the troll's big cock grew, and grew... and she said-'  


'Oh! Oh! Oh!' they all chorused.  


He glanced around the room. He wasn't the only one with a girl on his lap, he noticed. And none of them were paying any attention to him, or even to the story. Thank fuck it was dark in here.  


_Fuck it_ , he thought.  


He pushed the hem of Sansa's dress up. She did not move. He slid his hand under the dress and found stockings, her knee, bare skin above it. Hot skin, smooth as silk.  


'Tell me to stop,' he murmured into her hair. 'You want me to stop, I'll stop. Understand?'  


He felt her nod. His other arm was around his waist, holding her steady, and she had taken hold of his hand. He felt her squeeze it. He stopped what he was doing for a minute, but left his hand under her skirts.  


'...and the next night Myrah did as she was bid, and she went out again, to look for apples. But there were no apples! In the forest was the ugly old troll. Who said to her-'  


'I'll give you apples! Sit on my cock!'  


'...and Myrah sat on his lap and wriggled, and wriggled, and the troll's cock grew BIG, and FAT, until she was impaled on it! And she said-'  


'Oh! Oh! Oh!'  


She stopped squeezing his hand. Shifted a little, in his lap. He moved his hand higher, tracing a light path over her porcelain skin until he hit fabric - the loose undergarment that ladies wore. He'd forgotten ladies wore smallclothes. Most of the women he'd had in the past had nothing up their skirts to impede his progress. His brain stopped him for a moment to consider what they wanted to do when they needed to piss. Surely it was easier to just squat and lift your skirts a bit? Having to take down what was effectively a pair of linen undershorts before you could piss, how did that work?  


'...and the stepmother died...'  


'Hurray!'  


'...but Myrah went out to the forest on her own, to look for the troll, who wasn't nearly as ugly as she had thought...'  


He moved his hand higher and found that he could slip his hand under the edge. She squeezed his hand again, and he stopped. He could feel her breathing, her chest heaving. She lifted her head a little and he thought she might be about to tell him to remove his hand, but instead he felt her mouth on his throat, kissing. And then he felt her teeth grazing his skin, gently but firmly. The feeling of it nearly sent him over the edge.  


'...and she asked to sit on his cock! And the troll said-'  


'Oh! Oh! Oh!'  


He was there. He felt her soft curls, and her beautiful hot, wet cunt. His fingers slipped down between her cunt lips and in his lap she jumped like she'd been stung. He heard her gasp. He kept his hand still for a moment, until he felt her hand flutter away from the hand that gripped her waist, and move instead to the front of her dress. She looked down and saw the shape of his hand under her skirts, put her hand over it, and pushed him down.  


'You like that, little bird?' he murmured.  


She squeaked a little and nodded.  


'... and the troll's cock grew BIGGER and BIGGER, and Myrah wriggled and wriggled...'  


Gods, if he saw her face now he would stop. It was the room, the heat of it, the scent of rough bodies and sex in the air, all these villagers who were going to go home later and fuck each other senseless, he could feel it. And he was here with his fingers playing with Sansa Stark's cunt as if he had any right to touch her at all, as if he had any right to even look at her.  


His fingers were slippery now, sliding easily as he played with her, setting up an insistent rhythm. She pushed back against him, moving her hips as if she couldn't help herself. She was holding her breath and releasing it in little gasps, as if she was about to come. Surely she wouldn't come that quickly? But she was moving properly now, fidgeting and twisting against his fingers and he started working her properly, rubbing insistently against the hard little lump that he knew was the source of it all. Little breaths, little gasps, and then she took a deep breath in and held it, grabbed at his hand through the clothes and held him still, pressed against her hard. He put his other hand up to her mouth in case she was going to cry out... but he was too late.  


Fortunately at the very moment she let out an earthy, gasping grunt, the crowd shouted out the final crowing orgasm of the lucky old troll, and nobody heard her.  


Loud applause drowned out the gasping breaths as she came down from her high. He left his fingers where they were, just for a moment, and then as people began to get to their feet around them he slipped his hand from under her skirts, brought them to his mouth and licked them clean. He had never tasted anything quite so delicious, quite so perfect. She had finally managed to look at him, eyes huge and wide, chest heaving. He raised an eyebrow at her.

* * * *  


Someone had opened the door, and the cold air rushed in and hit Sansa's hot cheeks like an icy slap. She eased herself off Sandor's thigh, smoothing out her skirts, her throat dry. He handed her a cup of wine and she drank it gratefully, although it was really poor and made the inside of her mouth feel like it was coated with fur.  


The villagers began to depart, each of them throwing a few coins in Old Nan's little wooden box on the way out, some of them blowing her a kiss and a few of them even embracing her bony old shoulders. Lana and Maer had already begun carrying the chairs back out through the kitchen to the barn. She caught Lana's eye, and saw the look her friend gave her. A smirk, and a wink. Sansa hadn't thought it was possible that she could blush any harder than she already was.  


Sandor got up and helped the girls, carrying three chairs at a time, leaving her on the bench. She was grateful for the moment to herself, even if the room was still half-full of people who seemed reluctant to depart. Lana's mother was fussing at the door, complaining about the snow blowing in and the fire's heat blowing out, something about them not paying for the firewood and how many of them had homes to go to.  


Under the bench were three empty jugs of wine, and one that was still three quarters full. She drank from the jug, not caring if anyone noticed. She had a thirst on her that felt unquenchable, and a delicious warm tingling between her thighs.  


Before Sandor came back, she got to her feet a little unsteadily and made her way upstairs to their room. The fire was not lit but her whole body was burning. She could not sit still, pacing from the chair to the fireplace to the bed to the door, thinking that at any moment he would come in, and then what would happen? What had she done? What had he done? What on earth was she going to say to him when he came in?  


She began to take her dress off, deciding quickly that to be in bed, undressed and apparently asleep, was probably the safest of all her options, but she was too late. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the door opened.  


She had forgotten how very big he was. He even had to duck his head to get in. And suddenly the room seemed very small, and he seemed to be filling it.  


He shut the door behind him and without pausing he came up to her and pushed her gently but firmly back against the door, and his mouth dropped onto hers, and she just had time to let out a little gasp of surprise before he _devoured_ her. His mouth was hard, his tongue slipping into her mouth, finding hers. He stopped abruptly, pulled back to look at her dazed face, frowning, then kissed her again, harder, deeper. Slower.  


Her legs gave way. If he hadn't been still pressing her against the door, his whole body weight against hers, she would have crumpled to the floor. Between her thighs she felt the tingling and buzzing, as if his fingers were still there, instead of gripping her by the waist. Perhaps this was what the courtly ladies did, she thought. All that swooning. Her heart was pounding in her chest at the sensation, his teeth, his beard, his tongue, the _intimacy_ of it, him being inside her like this: his breath, fast and hot, against her cheek. She felt his hand come up from her waist and grasp at her breast, a little clumsily - it was higher up than he seemed to think it was - a hard thumb running over her nipple, which she felt like a bolt of shock through her clothes, and then he stopped, just as quickly as he started, took a step back from her. Wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Watched her eyes warily.

She stood still, leaning against the door, weak, gasping with it. She had no idea what to say to him.  


He turned away from her for a second, and then back again, and waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her hips, and said to her, 'You want more?'  


Despite everything, she felt herself nodding.  


'Take off your dress,' he said. His voice was hoarse.  


She did as she was told, hands shaking.  


'And... those,' he said, pointing at her smallclothes. 'You won't be needing them.'  


She undid the string and the decidedly damp linen smallclothes slipped down and pooled at her feet. She had never felt so much turmoil, so much wanting and needing and terror all at the same time. She wanted to look at him, for reassurance, but could not bring herself to raise her eyes to his. She stood there, utterly paralysed, until she heard him say, 'Lie down.'  


The bed sagged as he lay down next to her. He pulled her across to him so that she was nestled into his chest again, just as she had begun the day. Through her thin linen shift, his big hand on her back felt at though it was on her bare skin.  


'Not chirping tonight?' he asked, amused.  


'I can't - I don't...'  


'Ah, don't worry. If you can't chirp, I'll make you sing instead. You just tell me when you want me to stop.'  


He started with his fingers again, and she flinched a little when he touched her. He moved his hand round to her backside and grasped it firmly, pushing the shift out of the way until he found her bare skin. She pressed her face into his neck, the hair at his throat that was coarse and warm and smelled of sweat and woodsmoke and wine, snaked out her tongue and ran it into the hollow at the base of his throat, tasting the salty skin.  


He moved his hand from her arse to her thigh, hooked under it and pulled it up to his waist. His hand slid over and round and found her sensitive place once again, that screamed out for him to be gentle and not gentle all at the same time. Whatever it was this thing that he did, she wanted him to do it again, and not stop.  


His fingers slid over her skin, starting that insistent rub again. She gasped, clutched his shoulder as if she was about to fall off the edge of the world.  


This time it took longer. Her thoughts kept getting in the way: Arya, her mother, what they would say when they found out - although they could NEVER find out, she would not breathe a word of this, ever, to anyone, and how would she find the words to describe it, anyway? His fingers making her wet, making her feel like she had peed when she hadn't at all, and that feeling swelling up inside her like something was going to explode. It was like the fizz of excitement she had felt this morning, waking up against Sandor's bare chest, the same tightening down below. It was like holding your breath and drowning, she thought, although it couldn't be, because they were two different things.... And all the things she had heard in the bar tonight, the troll - oh gods, the troll! - and all of it made her want for him to put his fingers INSIDE her, and he hadn't done that at all, just stroked and rubbed and circled her, slippery with what must be her own wetness, and that was good... oh gods, it felt so GOOD... but something was missing, still.  


She whimpered, holding on to him.  


'Shh,' he said, against her hair.  


'Can you kiss me again,' she murmured, a little desperately.

She heard a little sound in his throat, like a tut of impatience, but he did it anyway, his hand threading through her hair and pulling it a little so she tilted her face up to his. He breathed out in a sigh against her mouth and she felt his tongue running along her lips, moment before he kissed her. Properly. No wonder he had scoffed at her timid little nibbles this morning. He kissed her like he was hungry for it, like he couldn't wait, like her mouth was everything he needed to survive. All the while his fingers were stroking her - and that noise, that rhythmic squelching sound that was both so erotic and slightly shameful at the same time - a firm, insistent rhythm, right where she wanted it, and the feeling of his needy tongue on hers, and then a low growl, deep in his chest.

****

That sound was what tipped her over the edge. For the second time that night she felt the surge, the pressure, rising up through her and pushing the breath out of her lungs, as her whole body pushed down into his hand, her calf now wrapped around his knee, gripping him so hard she thought he might break.  


Afterwards he left his hand there, not moving. She felt empty, her limbs heavy and lifeless, utterly unable to move.  


Perhaps she had died, she thought at last. Perhaps that's what it felt like - so out of control and yet so exhilarating. Like falling. Like flying.  


'Sansa,' he said, his voice shockingly loud in the quiet room.  


'Yes?'  


'Get into bed properly before you get cold.'  


She moved reluctantly, slipped under the covers. He was turned to face her, and finally she looked at him and at his flinty grey eyes regarding her steadily.  


'You done for tonight?' he asked.  


'I think so,' she said, closing her eyes. She had never felt so tired in all her life. 'Can we-'  


'What?' he asked.  


'Can we do this again?' She felt so wanton, asking. Because if the answer was no she was going to force herself awake again so that she could carry on.  


'Aye,' he said. 'And maybe more besides. If you want to.'  


She turned to face him, curling her hands against the solid wall of his chest, thinking _yes I think I will want to_ , and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the FOURTH NIGHT, people! What on earth are they going to get up to next, hmmm?
> 
> Seriously, though, thank you for your notes. And thank you to [Fanfic_Addicted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_Addicted/pseuds/Fanfic_Addicted) for taking Sandor's shirt off, I don't know why I didn't think of that one myself.
> 
> This whole fic, but this chapter in particular, was inspired by [Hollandoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle)'s fic [Do You Like What You See? Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741225?view_full_work=true). (And Part 1, for that matter). Now that fic is seriously HOT. Go have a look.
> 
> The songs about the turds and the man on the moon were bowdlerised (heh) from [this website.](http://www.ibiblio.org/bawdy/ballads/)
> 
> The story about Kaya and Jack is very roughly inspired by Chaucer's [The Wife of Bath's Tale](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wife_of_Bath%27s_Tale) (always my favourite) and the story about Myrah and the troll was inspired by a wee bit of [this essay by Jeana Jorgenson](https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/62429344.pdf) called Innocent Initiations: Female Agency in Eroticized Fairy Tales. Well worth a read!
> 
> Please note that you'll have to wait a wee bit longer for the Fifth Night - I've got a crazy busy day tomorrow so probably won't be able to write any more smut until the weekend. Sorry. I'll be back!


	5. Fifth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating! If you've read the earlier chapters already, have a quick look back at Chapter Four - I added some kissing.
> 
> If you spot any errant tenses, please let me know. I've been working on a present tense project today, and going back to past tense for this was SO difficult. Apologies if any slipped through.

Sansa had finished her dress. It was plain brown, thick wool, and not quite as long as she would have liked, but it was warm and it fitted her, and it would do. Lana's mother had found an old flannel sheet and so she had set to work making a petticoat, longer than the dress by a few inches but who was going to see? And in exchange for the fabric, she had also promised to make petticoats for Lana and Maer too. They would be quick - maybe she could do all three in a day.  


The girls had been set to work scrubbing the kitchen floor, and so to avoid being sloshed with water Sansa had taken her needlework into the empty bar to work. Without the fire lit, it was chilly in here and quite dark, but it was quiet and it gave her a chance to think.  


She was avoiding the Hound. He'd been asleep when she got up this morning, lying on his back, one hand palm-up on her chest as if he'd just flung his arms out and happened to fall on her. He didn't wake up when she slipped out of bed, didn't move when she dressed. By the time she opened the door she considered that he might be feigning sleep; perhaps he was too embarrassed to look at her too. Perhaps he was already regretting what he'd done yesterday.  


For a moment she remembered the noise she'd made, completely involuntary, a sort of long, grunting moan like a farrowing sow. She had never made a noise like that in her life!  


And then the triumphant look on his face, as he licked his fingers clean of her, so terribly pleased with himself, as if he'd shown her something she should have known all along.  


And yet, something inside her had changed. She could feel the pull of it, a lustful tug under her skirts, the desire to know more, and see more, and feel more. She should stop it now, stop everything. She should say to him that he must sleep on the floor, or she will. If she shared the bed with him again, she would not be able to resist reaching for him, not for warmth, but for more of whatever it was he could give her. More of that feeling of utter pleasure, more of that delicious release.  


Sansa put down her sewing and straightened her back, feeling the muscles clench and tense. It was easy to feel virtuous in the daylight, to make plans to be good and to keep herself pure. It was a different matter when the darkness fell, when the winds began to pick up again and the lure of a warm bed, a fireplace and Sandor's body, the heavy, solid heat of him, took hold of her.

* * * *  


Sandor came in from the cold before it got properly dark. All day he had Sansa's face in his mind, the look in her eyes when the waves of pleasure hit her. The surprise of it, like it was something she'd never felt before. The darkening of her eyes, the way her pupils grew, the way she looked at him, wordlessly begging him not to stop.  


He had thought about it so much he wasn't sure any more what was fact and what was details he'd embellished to satisfy his own primal lust.  


Once he had eaten - a sober affair in the kitchen after the excesses of last night - he went straight upstairs to their room, looking at Sansa as he did so. He did not expect her to join him, not really: she was at work in front of the fire with the two girls, needlework spread over her thighs. She looked up at him as he left, and then flushed and went quickly back to her work.  


It took her less than ten minutes.  


He had lit the fire and it was just beginning to crackle into life, and when she opened the door he was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his boots.  


'I brought you wine,' she said.  


'Only one cup,' he observed. 'That's for you. I can drink from the jug.'  


She shook her head. 'I don't want any.'  


'Got a sore head?'  


'No.'  


She was still by the door. His little bird, watching him warily; but it felt like a different sort of wariness. She was not afraid of him. It was like she was afraid of herself, her own burgeoning power.  


He got up from the bed and took the flagon of wine from her right hand, the cup from her left. He poured a cup and downed it, took both over to the table and put them down. She had still not moved, hands by her sides, silent, patient, tense as a lute string. He wanted to soften her, to play her, to make her happy.  


She seemed to like him kissing her and so he did that first, taking her face in both his palms and invading her mouth, slower than yesterday but no less deliberately. He did not push her against the wall but he felt her sway, and dropped one of his hands to her waist in case she lost her footing. Was it really that good? He didn't understand kissing. Whores didn't kiss, or maybe they did with other men but where Sandor was concerned they never got close enough to his face, and he didn't blame them. They kissed his body well enough and he liked it, liked doing it to them too. But kissing on the mouth? This was a new thing for him. And Sansa's delicate little mouth, her tongue pushing against his urgently as she got braver and braver: well, actually now he liked it very much indeed. So much that when he pulled back to look at her, he was actually smiling.  


'I want to fuck you,' he growled, the words out before he had a chance to think about what he was saying.  


'Yes,' she said, her eyes still half-closed, her lips fuller and pinker for his devouring of them.  


'But I can't.'  


'Yes. You can.'  


'I won't, then.'  


'Why not?' her eyes were open, then. And fierce. He loved seeing that ferocity, like fire behind the jewels.  


He took a step back, sat down on the bed again, patted the space next to him as if they were in the bar and about to have a casual conversation.  


'Because you're a maid, and I promised not to hurt you.'  


'That's a different sort of hurt,' she said, a little petulantly. 'Isn't it?'  


'Well, then, because if I take your maidenhead your family will kill me. And however much my cock wants your cunt, it's not worth my head. Don't frown like that, it makes me want you more.'  


He watched as Sansa crossed the room to the table and filled the cup again, and drank it down. It felt like an act of defiance.  


'Bring it here,' he said.  


She sat next to him and handed him the cup, full again. 'There's only a bit left,' she said. 'I didn't bring a full jug. I didn't want you to have too much.'  


'Why's that?'  


'Because Lana says that men can't - if they have too much wine.'  


'Never had that problem myself,' he said, slurping the wine, watching her with an eyebrow raised.  


'You're teasing me,' she said.  


'It's hard not to, when you look so fucking beautiful when you're sulking. And you chirp less, when you're cross.'  


She pouted even more at that, and then he could not resist any more, placed the cup on the floor and kissed her again, harder, invading her mouth to wipe the pout away. She nipped at his bottom lip and he sucked her lip into his mouth until she gasped. 

At least she was sitting down now, he thought. If she fell, it would be back onto the bed.  


'Your maidenhead,' he said, pointing at her, 'is a precious thing, apparently, and only for your husband to take.'  


She lifted her chin. 'It's for any man I choose to give it to.'  


He looked at her for a moment. Stronger than she looks, he thought. Fiercer, too. 'And you would choose me, little bird? A dirty old dog with no manners, no graces?'  


'Yes,' she said. 'I choose you.'  


He looked away. Something inside his chest was hurting, raw, as if she had sliced him open and bared his soul. 'You need to think about that. If you still feel that way tomorrow, then maybe.'  


She took the wine cup from the floor and took the last of it, then pressed her mouth to his and shared the liquid with him. Something about it reminded him of last night, the slipperiness of his fingers against her, the softness of her tongue when he kissed her against the door.  


'Besides,' he said, into her mouth, 'there are other things to do first.'

* * * * *  


'Other things?' Sansa asked.  


'Aye. If you want.'  


'What other things?' she felt like he was teasing again.  


'I want to taste your cunt,' he said.  


'Oh! Taste it?'  


'Aye. My mouth... there.'  


She swallowed thickly, feeling the beginnings of the wine swirling her thoughts. 'I'm not sure.'  


He laughed. 'You want my cock inside you, but not my tongue?'  


'It just seems very... intimate.'  


'Aye, it is. Very.' His eyes were wine-dark, hard with desire.  


'What about your... fingers?'  


'What about them?'  


Sansa was blushing furiously now. Why was this so difficult for her, when he seemed to find it so easy? He had all the words for it, all the experience of having done this before - Sansa didn't really want to think about him doing this to someone else, but now she had thought about it, there it was: he must have done this lots of times, to lots of women. She wondered where they were now, all the women who had kissed him and wanted him before she had even realised he existed.  


She felt his hand, heavy, on her knee, nudging up her skirts. She looked down at the hand and then in his eyes, dark grey and serious, now, no longer teasing her.  


'Every minute you give me is a gift,' he said. 'I don't want to waste any of it.'  


She kissed him again, gentler, cupping his cheek, while he gathered her skirts until his hand found her bare knee. 'You're teaching me,' she said, suddenly realising.  


'Hmm?'  


'You're going to teach me how to do it.'  


'I'll teach you how to give yourself pleasure. I'm sure you can teach me a few things,' he said.  


'Me?' she laughed. His hand was tracing patterns on her thigh. She opened her legs, just slightly, so he could get between them, closed her eyes. 'I'm sure I shan't be able to teach you anything at all.'  


It was the last thing she said, for a while.  


_How to love_ , she thought. _I'm going to teach you how to love_.

* * * *  


He helped her out of her dress. What he actually did was pull and loosen and tug until the fabric seemed at risk of tearing, and then she took over and undid everything deftly and parted her dress, and then because he kept watching and not moving, she took it off completely.  


She was not wearing her smallclothes, he noted with a searing inner satisfaction. He wondered if she had been thinking about this all day, if she had been wet all day, and he traced an experimental finger over her cunt lips to see. Wet, slippery.  


The neck of his shirt, clutched in her hungry little fist. He pulled it off over his head, and then her hand snaking around his neck, pulling him down in a kiss. He had never been kissed so much in his life and he was starting to develop a taste for it. A taste for her. He would suck at her cunt until she screamed, he thought, and then he would kiss her own sweet wine back into her mouth, make her taste her own pleasure.  


His hand skimmed the swells and curves of her, hidden under that loose linen shift.  


'Take this off,' he said, suddenly impatient.  


'But-'  


'Take it off.'  


She sat up and lifted her arms and he pulled it off her. She lay back on the bed, shivering. Her breasts were larger than he thought they would be but still small by any brothel's standards. He hated that comparison but it was all he had. Each of them a little handful, and he could span her teat to teat with a single hand, thumb on one, little finger on the other. Traced a fingertip from her throat to her navel, nudging her legs apart with his knee. Her fingers, laced over her cunt hair, like she was ashamed.  


'Don't do that,' he said.  


She loosened her fingertips but there was something fearful in her eyes.  


'Your cunt is beautiful,' he said. 'Don't hide. Never hide it.'  


She made a small sound. Disbelief, maybe.  


'What you have there,' he said, suddenly roused by it, 'is a source of fucking power. You'd better get used to it, and learn how it works.'  


He could not wait any longer. He settled himself next to her, lifted her left thigh over his head, kissing the inside of it as he did so. He heard her whimper a little and told himself to be gentle, not to frighten her anymore, but then there she was, everything he had expected and somehow even more beautiful; pink and pale and shiny already, glossy with her desire, shielded by curls the colour of a weirwood tree in the autumn, red and gold, sunset and fire. He stroked a tentative finger from her hooded pearl down to her arse, then brought his finger to his mouth. He had never tasted anything so divine, so perfect. And now she was his; this cunt here for him to explore.  


He kissed her, gently. She flinched from it but then seemed to relax. He nudged his tongue against her cleft, sucked her lips gently into his mouth before releasing them, sliding his tongue against her again. And she did not flinch any more. After a minute or two she was pushing back, pushing herself wide, opening herself as wide as she could, as if it would get him closer.  


He had done this before, with whores, once or twice. He did not need to. Most of the time he fucked them and left, but there were one or two who begged him for release, and he would kneel between their thighs and rock his mouth against their cunts until they clutched at him and yelled. This felt very different. There was a reverence to it: not the desire to finish her, to get her to come, but a desire to show her everything her body was capable of. He wanted to go slowly, to build her up and then let her fall back, to bring her to the brink of it and deny her, until she was insane with need for it. It was for her pleasure, but also for his. Every moment he spent working between Sansa Stark's thighs was a memory he knew he would treasure for every sorry minute he was alive.  


He pleasured her until her cunt was swollen and pink, her thighs shuddering, her neat little toes pointed, the delicate arch of her feet tense with it. She was whimpering quietly, breathing hard and fast, fidgeting, squirming. Then he remembered that she had wanted his finger inside her. He thought for a moment of her maidenhead, and that in pushing inside her with his finger he would probably take it, no matter how gentle he tried to be. Was this it? The moment he signed his own death warrant?  


He made a sound against her cunt, 'mmm,' and he pushed a finger slowly but deliberately inside her, and she exploded.

* * * *  


While she was still laid loose and fluid on her back, her legs shamelessly wide, still twitching with it, he raised himself up to her level and kissed her. His beard was damp and warm, and smelling musky. His tongue against hers tasted salty, animal, and faintly of heavy Dornish red.  


'That's you,' he whispered against her throat. 'That's your beautiful cunt.'  


She ran her fingers through his hair as he kissed her chest, her breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth and tonguing it in a way that made her crumple again. It was too much. She pushed his head away, and he chuckled. Only when she opened her eyes did she see him lying next to her, bare chested, his head resting on one hand. His other hand had strayed down her body, trickling with his fingertips on too-sensitive skin, to her salty core, cooling now, but warming again as his fingers found it. It felt too raw, too sensitive, until he cupped her and held her.  


'I don't think that's a very nice word,' she said, wrinkling her nose. His fingers were stroking her now almost absentmindedly, like he couldn't keep his hands away, and it was very distracting.  


'What - cunt?'  


'Yes.'  


'What would you have me call it, little bird? Your whelk? Your slit?'  


He saw her frown and smirked.  


'Your peach? It is a peach, so soft, so juicy. But not - bold enough. Hmm.... Your wolf?'  


'I think I prefer cunt to any of those,' she said, thoughtfully. Then she added: 'but I've heard you use it in anger. I've heard you call people - men - a cunt. Men you hate. Like Joffrey.'  


He nodded. 'Aye, that's true.'  


'I don't want that part of me - or any part of me - to be associated with how you feel about the King.'  


'As you wish, little bird. I'll not use that word any more, except for this beauty,' and he cupped her in his hand again, boldly, laying claim to it.  


She wondered for a moment at this new found power of hers; that here was a man who listened to her. Actually listened. 'It's still just a word,' she said.  


'It's the best word that was ever thought of, for the most precious thing,' he said, running one finger between her lips again before bringing it to his mouth to suck, with one eyebrow raised. 'The sweetest word there is.'  


'Sweeter than killing?' she asked.  


He thought about this for so long that she thought he wasn't going to answer at all. The mood had changed slightly, grown colder.  


Then he said: 'Depends who I'm killing. And whose cunt I have under my tongue.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might add more to this... but I'm working my way up to Night Sex, ahem, I mean Night Six.
> 
> About time Sandor got some, I'd say.


	6. Sixth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go then, lads.

The next day, bored of sitting indoors bent over her needlework, Sansa went out to the stables to find the Hound. He was with the stable lad, showing him how to groom Stranger. Sansa stayed well back from Stranger's hooves, and watched. The lad didn't look especially enthusiastic either.  


'You have to be firm,' the Hound was saying. 'No point being soft with him. He can tell you're scared.'  


'Well, I am scared,' the lad responded.  


He was older than he looked at first, maybe nineteen, twenty. Older than her, but only just. She looked from one of them to the other, the lad growing into his shoulders and his long legs, a mop of brown curly hair, a strong jaw. And then to the Hound, taller, older by quite some degree; battle-scarred, wounded in his soul as much as in his body. He had blood and dirt under his nails and no matter how he washed his hands, they would always be stained.  


The Hound noticed her, then. Glanced at her and nodded, dispassionately. The lad turned to see what was going on, saw Sansa and smiled, showing even white teeth. Oh, he was handsome all right. But she felt nothing when she looked at him, beyond the casual observation of his appearance. Jeyne would like him, but Jeyne wasn't here. It was only when she caught the Hound's eye again and saw what lurked beneath - the same hunger that was gnawing away at her, reflected back - that she realised boys would never be enough for her. Not anymore. Nobody would ever make her feel so utterly exhilarated as he did.  


Tonight, she decided, she would make him take her, properly, whatever that involved. So what if it hurt. It couldn't possibly be that bad, or nobody would bother to do it at all and all the girls would die as maids. Besides, it had not snowed for a while - the days had begun to blur - and it felt distinctly warmer today. They might only have tonight, and tomorrow he would insist on resuming their journey. And perhaps they might not get time alone together. Not like this.  


The look in his eyes made her think that perhaps he was thinking the same thing.

* * * * 

The day drifted past slower than any day in the history of Sandor's life. He took the horse out, and because the ground underfoot was hard but no longer solid ice, he trusted Stranger's footing to go a little faster. He rode up as far as the snow bank. It looked a little less, perhaps, and he could see evidence of thaw, but not enough to make an attempt to get out. Higher up, it would be solid snow still, too deep to get through.  


Back in the stables, he groomed the horse briskly to try and quieten him, not that it had ever worked before. The stable lad, curious, asked him about Stranger's history.  


'He's seen more than his fair share of death,' Sandor explained. 'It's made him fierce.'  


The lad stood at a safe distance and watched while Sandor worked, having been kicked once too many times and valuing his bones whole. And then the girl appeared, her hair a flash of red like a fox against the snow. Sandor's body reacted to her every time now. He had grown able to control it, back in the Red Keep. He had turned his mind to the tasks he had to do, thought of them whenever he saw her, stilled his heart and calmed himself, knowing it was futile. And now? He had his fingers inside her last night, his tongue swirling around her cunt; she had pushed herself wide to get him even closer. In the cold, brisk light of day, none of that felt possible, or indeed likely. There was only the look in her eyes, the way her gaze passed over the lad - just about her age, even Sandor can tell he would be able to get any girl he chose - and came to rest on him.  


He had told her to think about it. Giving her a night and a day to come to her senses had felt like a risk. Much as he wanted to bury himself inside her - and today he could think of very little else - it would be much more prudent if they stopped what they were doing, or at least went no further than they already had. Sandor had thought about asking her to suck him, thought about her wrapping her elegant fingers around his cock and showing her how to bring him off. It would be good, of course it would. And gods, who would ever have thought that he would be considering something like that with any degree of seriousness, that it would ever have become a remote possibility! But now it was not only possible, it felt likely. And here he was, trying to work out if that happened, whether he would actually be able to control himself.  


Because that was the risk, wasn't it? That he wouldn't be able to stop.

* * * *  


'You are just thinking about one thing,' she said to him, much later. 'You're forgetting all the other stuff.'  


They were lying on the bed, face to face, fully dressed. It was almost dark, perhaps late afternoon. The smells of cooking wafted up the stairs, but it did not smell appetising: there was something sour about it, as if yet another ingredient had been tossed into the stew that was already several days old, in an attempt to make it taste different.  


'What other stuff?' he grumbled.  


'This,' she said, pressing her hand to his chest. 'And this.' She leaned forward and kissed him, almost demurely, which reminded him of that morning he'd woken up to find her breathy little mouth on his, so gentle. He was not used to tenderness, it had taken him by surprise, how moved he was. And how he longed to devour her right there and then. How hard it had been to stop himself.  


He had followed her up the stairs, and deliberately not kissed her. Had deliberately left everything on except his boots.  


'I'm still certain,' she had said.  


He did not bother to ask her what about. 'It's not a good idea.'  


'I know that,' she said. 'But it doesn't stop me wanting. Longing. And I'm not going to change my mind.'  


'If we fuck-'  


He had broken off, tired of the same argument, tired of pressing the matter. He was tired of all of it, tired of holding back. Tired of pretending. Tired of trying to keep her safe, not just from the world but now, also, from himself. He felt his resolve slipping like water through his fingers.  


'You need to eat,' he said, then. 'You've had nothing since this morning.'  


'It's only that awful stew again, I don't know if I can.'  


'Aye, you can,' he said. 'You need to keep your strength up.'  


She smiled, then, and shuddered with excitement like a child. 'You mean...?'  


'You can still change your mind. I'll say nothing. And if you need me to stop, I'll stop. You just tell me.'  


'I will! Of course I will. But I won't want to stop.'  


Her childlike enthusiasm for it was so disconcerting he nearly changed his mind himself. But now he'd given in, he could think of nothing else. 

* * * *  


Sansa sat opposite Sandor at the kitchen bench. Lana served them a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread each, and glanced from one to the other as if she sensed exactly what was going on. Sansa was trying to keep the smile off her face, trying not to fidget in her seat, trying not to eat too quickly. Inside she felt tremulous, barely able to control herself, thrilled and afraid all at the same time.  


Meanwhile Sandor looked the same as he always did, that strange lithe way he held his body, almost casually, like he couldn't give a shit about anything at all. She had seen that look before. Joffrey's Name Day, when the Hound was set to fight man after man. And between each he would drink a skin of wine, straighten, breathe, and look as if he wasn't sure if he could be bothered to fight or not. It was an act, designed to make his opponent think he was slow, lazy. They all thought they could best him. None of them could.  


And the way he had looked at Ser Meryn Trant for days after that horrible, horrible day when she'd been beaten in front of everyone. She had seen it, not understood it. She had thought him indifferent to her, indifferent to everything. With Ser Meryn he had stared, his eyes cold and dead, and said nothing. Looked him in the eye and barely moved. Ser Meryn had been unnerved by it, and she had not understood that, either. Why was he afraid of the Hound? They were both in Joff's pay. And why did he look so concerned, when the Hound had done nothing at all?  


He was so utterly in control of himself, she thought. And she was anything but that, barely able to keep still.  


He had been looking at his food, spooning it in hungrily as he always did, slurping and chewing and making so much noise that she actually pulled a little face and stared at him crossly.  


He raised an eyebrow at her.  


'Do you absolutely have to?'  


'You want me to take my time?' he asked.  


Her breathing snagged. Something in the way he said it. And then, she had caught herself in his gaze, like a fish on a line, and she could not look away.  


'Yes,' she whispered. 'Take your time.'  


He smirked, then, bit off another piece of bread and chewed, watching her. Everything he said, everything he did, was making her squirm against the hard wood beneath her as if it was his body. She wanted him so badly, now, she considered getting up and leaving the stew and dragging him upstairs straight away.  


'You be wanting any more?' Lana's mother asked, coming over with the ladle.  


'No, I'm fine,' Sansa insisted. 'Thank you so much, it's delicious.'  


'You need feeding up, my dear! Doesn't she? Don't you think she needs feeding up?'  


Sandor had not taken his eyes off her. 'Aye, she definitely needs feeding.'  


Another ladleful of stew was poured into Sansa's bowl, but at least then the woman went back to stoking the fire. It felt like torture. Sandor had finished eating already and now was watching every mouthful she took, chewed, swallowed. His hand, under the table, had found her knee. Just the barest touch and she jumped like she'd been burned. She stretched out her leg and found his, pressed against it. Surely they would all see! She glanced back into the kitchen and saw them all occupied, the girls supping from their own bowls, the old man asleep in a chair by the fire, the mother stirring the stew to stop it catching. Nobody was paying them any attention. Not even Lana.  


'I can't eat any more,' Sansa whispered.  


He cocked an eyebrow at her and tipped the contents of her bowl into his, finished it in two noisy mouthfuls.  


'I'm going to bed,' he announced, before she could. Got up and threw one half smile at her, and he was up the stairs and away.  


Sansa cleared the bowls and took them to wash, but Lana's mother took them off her. 'Oh, you're such a helpful girl!' - this with a look thrown in Lana's direction, a little unfairly - 'And how are the petticoats?'  


'Nearly finished,' Sansa said, feeling guilty because she had not once picked up the work today. 'I've been a little tired, I'm sorry I did not get them done.'  


Lana's mother looked at her suspiciously, cast a quick glance at the bowl of stew. 'You're not feeling unwell, child?'  


'Oh, no! I'm quite well. Maybe a little headache.'  


This wasn't entirely a lie. Something in Sansa's head was buzzing like a swarm of bees. 'Perhaps - perhaps I should go to bed, too.'  


Sansa made the mistake of looking at Lana and was treated to a filthy grin and a wink.  


'Some hot milk, perhaps? Or hot water, for a bath?'  


'No, thank you. I'll come back down if I feel worse.'  


And she escaped.  


Trying not to run.  


She paused outside the door and then opened it. Almost immediately Sandor held her, pushed the door shut behind her firmly. Backed her against the wall. The heavy, solid heat of him. His hand on her waist, running over her breasts, squeezing her. His knee nudged hers apart, the hot length of his body pressing against her, making her tremble.  


Her fingers clutched at his shirt, wanting him to take it off. His hand left her breast and reached for his breeches, unlacing them with one hand. She reached behind and pushed the fabric down, grabbing at bare skin, a hairy backside made of solid muscle, pulled him closer still.  


And then he was reaching down her legs, seizing handfuls of skirt, pulling them higher.  


'Wait, wait,' she gasped, untying her gown and wriggling to loosen it, his hands trying to help and coming up against hers. In the end she heard something tear. Felt his hand on the bare skin of her waist.  


He lifted her shift, bunching it in his fist. She felt the length of him against her stomach, hot and hard, and then his hands slipped under her thighs and lifted her so suddenly that she gasped, pulling her legs around his waist. And only then did he kiss her, groaning into her mouth, invading it, his tongue seeking hers and pushing against it.  


She could feel him, bumping against her. Was this it? Was he going to push upwards and impale her? She braced herself in case, but then he released her mouth and her legs at the same time, eased her gently back to her feet. His eyes were dark with hunger, his breath coming hard. He shook his head slightly. For one awful second she thought he was going to stop completely, but then he stepped out of the breeches which were at mid thigh, and she looked down and saw him, all of him: the dark hair on his legs, the muscle on them. And his manhood, his weapon, his stallion's tool, hard and heavy and moving against his leg. He pulled his shirt over his head and looked behind him, while she stood there by the door with her dress open.  


'Here,' he said, and sat down on the chair. It creaked a little under his weight. Not a comfortable chair by any means, what was he thinking? What was wrong with the bed?  


'Come.' He held out his hand to her and she went to him, leaning down to kiss his mouth. He pulled her dress open and pushed it off her shoulders, lifted the bottom of her shift and used it to bring her closer. His knee nudging between hers.  
And then he looked up at her, challenging. Patted his bare knee. She looked down at him, stretched languorous and magnificent, calm and sensuous, his cock standing straight and proud.  


'You want me to...?'  


'Aye. Sit.'  


'But-'  


'You go as deep as you want,' he said.  


She sat his lap, legs astride his massive thighs, feeling dizzy and unbalanced. He held her waist to steady her, then grabbed her backside firmly and pulled her forward. She looked down at their bodies and how they met, his sex and hers. She felt the pull of it, the longing, overriding the fear.  


A finger, under her chin, lifted her eyes to meet his. 'You don't have to,' he murmured.  


'But I want this,' she said. 'I want you.'  


Her fingers reached for him, both her hands encircling him. His hands closed over hers, squeezing. 'Harder,' he said, his head tipped back. 'You won't break it.'  


She loved it, already. So hard, so hot, and the skin so soft, sliding over what felt like solid muscle, and yet strangely vulnerable too. Something so unbearably intense about it, his hands over hers, moving faster until he released her quickly, slipped his hand down to her sex.  


'You're wet enough,' he said.  


She thought he might have been less brutal about it, maybe say it differently, but it didn't matter anyway, she felt ready. She had been ready for days and nights, ready to feel him inside her, properly inside. Before she could change her mind she raised herself up and gripped him, to hold him steady, hold him right there against her wet core. Eased herself down onto it.  


Her heart was pounding with it. Nothing happened. She pushed harder, felt the first part of him entering her. Let out a little sound, like a whimper.  


'Slow,' he said.  


She waited for a moment, poised, a fledgling testing its wings. Then sank down, hard, pushing herself down onto him. Something gave way inside her and he filled her. She felt swollen inside, a rich, stinging pain that snagged her breath. That was it, she thought. Done. I've done it.  


His hand trickled up her spine, making her shiver. He found her eyes, caught hold of her, asking. She nodded in response, smiled, bit her lip, hands braced against his chest. She looked down, saw that he was half buried inside her. She felt full of him, feeling him all the way inside her - how could she take any more?  


'Don't think,' he murmured. 'Gods, Sansa. You are so-'  


He did not finish. She leaned forward and met his mouth with hers, kissing him indulgently. He was letting her control everything, even that. The kindness of him, holding himself back, waiting for her. She felt her heart swelling with love for him. She would show him! Show him how it felt to be loved. He had never had that before, she knew it, and it had made him hard and cold and angry.  


'Does it hurt?' he asked her, when she dropped her head to his chest.  


'Not now,' she said. 'It did, a bit.'  


She was still impaled on him, unmoving, feeling a little lost.  


His eyes, on hers, looking at her as if he could not quite believe it, any of it. He traced a finger across her chest, turned to nod at the bed. 'Now we try something else.'

* * * *  


Sandor got to his feet, his forearms under her thighs. He slipped free from her but she was more afraid of being dropped, her arms suddenly clutched around his neck, squealing. As if he would drop her! As if. He eased her onto the bed and slid over her, trying to keep his weight off her chest. And he found her like a glove, pushed inside slowly, waiting for her to clench, waiting for her to shrink away from him. Waiting for her to say stop.  


She did none of those things. She opened her legs wider, slid a hand over his arse, pulled him close. Such a needy little bird, her eyes hungry, her mouth open, full of exhilaration and terror and desire. He devoured it with his.  


He withdrew, pushed into her again, harder this time. A gasp, but still she did not flinch. She took all of him. He thrusted, harder and faster, building a rhythm quickly. Pulled her thigh around his waist. Deeper, deeper. She sheathed him completely now, his balls slapping against her with every stroke. He expected her to find this more difficult, more painful. He moved onto his side and took her with him, reaching under her thigh until he felt the place where they met, trying to find the place that would make her peak.  


Her hand pushed his away clumsily, gasping into his mouth, 'no, just... don't stop.'  


His little bird, begging. He could not stand it any more, drove himself into her, heard her gasping but not in pain, until he could feel it coming, building inside his balls and he pulled out quickly, spurted into the space between them, grabbing his cock in his hand in the last seconds to take him over the edge.

* * * *  


Sansa was still hot, although they had not lit the fire. Lying with her body pressed against his wet sticky body, not able to bear being even slightly apart from him. Tracing the lines of his scars through the fur on his chest, wondering at each of them. His fingers tangled in her hair, twisting bits of it into ringlets. She looked at his chest, the hair, the scars, her own fingers spread, pressing the hard muscle, not with desire any more but with a curious sense of something else. Belonging. Ownership. She was his, undeniably his, which meant that he was hers, too.  


She felt changed, utterly changed; like she had taken a step forward, crossing the line boldly from girlhood to womanhood. And that moment when she had impaled herself on him - she had done that! She really had! - she had felt rooted, as though in joining her body with his something permanent had locked them together.  


The tension in him, how desperately he had tried not to lose control of himself, and how in the end he had done it anyway, and it was fine. He had caused her no pain, but now there was just a sort of delicious soreness between her legs, just a reminder of what had happened, of what she had done.  


And meanwhile Sandor was spread out next to her, breathing deeply, loosened, languid, utterly naked and unashamed. She looked down at his cock, still half hard. Such a thing of beauty, and power, to make her feel the way he did! She thought of the meal they had eaten, of his calmness, the way he wore his face like a mask. He did that a lot, she realised. There was a mask on most of the time, and it was only here, in the inn, that she had begun to see what was behind it. It was a Hound's mask, a snarl, clenched teeth, threatening to bite. And behind it, Sandor, the man, with a bare vulnerability despite his size, despite the blood on his hands that he could never wash away. That he had let her see behind the mask was such a precious gift... she would never use it against him. She would never torment him, or hurt him.  


Joffrey might have had him as a dog, taught to bite and not to lick, but she wanted the man instead.  


She decided there and then that she would not call him the Hound any more, not even in her private thoughts. He was her Sandor, the man who had allowed her to fledge, who had anointed her into womanhood.  


And if they had another night together, she would love him even harder then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tired out writing this, so I'm sure there are mistakes. Please point them out, and I'll fix them. There's one I found in the last chapter and I foolishly didn't fix it at the time, so now I can't find it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Might be a while until the next update as I've got a busy few days ahead, but I'm sure I won't be able to leave them alone now they've got rid of all those barriers between them... expect some proper dirty shagging for their last few nights.


	7. Seventh Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Are you all still there? Has anyone wandered off?
> 
> I've had a very busy long weekend at a conference writing filthy little excerpts in my notebook ;)

'I feel like they will all be able to tell by looking at me.'  


Sansa twirled her fingers in Sandor's chest hair, occasionally giving it a tug to illustrate a point. He did not seem to mind, lying there stretched out, legs apart, one hand under his neck, watching her. She was snuggled against his side, one of her legs thrown over his thigh, her foot playing with his calf. They had been lying here, awake, talking, for quite some time.  


'They will if you keep fidgeting and grinning like a wee girl,' he said. 'Look at you - you can't keep still.'  


'It's because I'm happy,' she said.  


He groaned and brought his hand from under his neck to rub his eyes. 'You said.'  


'Aren't you happy?'  


'I don't get happy. Not like you do.'  


'Well, that's something we're going to have to change.'  


Even hours after they had done it, she could still feel it between her legs, the slight soreness. Every time she moved or walked today, she would feel it. All day until tonight, and then maybe he would take her again. She shivered at the thought of it, of her sitting on his lap. She would be braver, tonight. She could be brave.  


'You cold?'  


'A little,' she fibbed, because she thought he might cuddle up to her if she was.  


He didn't take the hint. After a moment he rubbed her back, rather briskly she thought, much like her father used to rub Rickon's back when he was a baby, to bring up wind.  


'Well, you'll be needing your porridge,' he said. 'Let's eat, before they send that girl to look for us.'  


He got up, then, disentangling himself from her arms and legs, and locating his breeches and shirt and boots which were scattered over the floor where they had fallen last night.  


Sansa sighed heavily but got up too, pulled her shift over her head and then her dress, tying up the laces and smoothing out the creases, which were really quite appalling; then gathering up her stockings and sliding them up one leg, and then the other, and tying the ribbons around her thighs. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to get the knots out. She should have plaited it last night, but she had not given it so much as a thought. Besides, last night he had had both his hands in her hair, threading his fingers through it, holding her head steady so he could look at her; then, later, pushing it over her shoulder so he could get to her breasts; and even later than that, twisting locks of it around his fingers as she finally drifted off to sleep. Now it was a tangled mess. She did her best to pull it into three sections so she could work it into a rough plait, then she twisted it up and stuck a pin through it. It felt like a bird's nest to her, but it would have to do.  


Sandor was standing by the door, waiting, watching all this. She stood up, and lifted her chin.  


'Do I look decent?' she asked.  


He stared. 'You look... something.'  


'That bad?'  


'That good.'  


She saw his breeches, the bulge in them, and her mouth watered at it. She squeezed her thighs together, felt the now familiar flooding dampness, felt the tingling.  


'I'm sad that you're dressed,' she said in a small voice.  


Still he looked at her. She could see beyond his mask, now - that impassivity, that face that said he couldn't care if she was here or not, if he was to fight or not, if he was to fuck, or not. She saw something in his eyes, just a flicker, like a hunger. Like a need. Knew it, because it mirrored hers.  


'What if I were to ask you to take your clothes off again,' she said. 'Would you do it?'  


He tilted his head. 'Why don't you try?'

* * * * 

'Yes,' she said into his ear. 'YES.'  


He was balls-deep inside Sansa Stark, something that he still couldn't quite get used to. He was flat on his back and she was on top of him, starfished, but he was the one doing the fucking. He had both his hands gripping her thighs just under where her arse ended, and he was moving her whole body up and down, and thrusting into her all at the same time. He would be leaving fingermarks on her arse, he thought, not that there was anyone would would see. Just him. Just him, who had the honour of looking at her arse and her thighs and everything else whenever he wanted to, gods alive, how did this happen? How did he get the right to have both his hands on her arse and his cock buried in her sweet, wet, needy little cunt? Trying to stop himself from coming too quickly, because he needed to make this good for her. Sooner or later she'd get bored of him, or they'd be in Winterfell and they'd have found her some fucking pretty-boy lordling to court her, and he would be history. She wouldn't want a rough hairy-arsed giant like him to fuck if she had someone with pretty blue eyes and pretty blond curls and smooth golden skin. Would she?  


The thought distracted him for a moment or two and he nearly lost it completely.  


Then she bit his earlobe and he was hard as steel again, driving into her.  


He wasn't going to get bored of her, in any case. He'd go along with this for as long as he possibly could. It wouldn't last, of course it wouldn't, but while it did he would enjoy every fucking second of it.  


She put both her hands on his chest and pushed herself up, pulling her knees up to his waist so she could get the angle right, and he let her take over. She was still getting used to the rhythm but he could wait; let her learn it for herself. Let her find her own pace, and meanwhile he would quite happily lie here and watch those glorious breasts bouncing and slapping together, right in front of his face. He let go of her arse and found them with both hands, kneading them, pinching her teats until she gasped and looked down at him. Mouth slightly open, tongue on her upper lip, gods, how was he supposed to stand it?  


He licked his fingers and slipped his hand down between them while she moved. Watched her face to see whether he'd hit the right spot. That's it. Head back, mouth open, a proper guttural gasp.  


' _Yes_ ,' she said again. She reached for his free hand, threaded her fingers through his, gripped him tightly. For balance.  


Faster, then. She stopped moving and let him do it, her eyes closed now, screwed up tight, teeth clenched, faster, harder. Her knees gripped him like he was a horse. Breathing through her nose. He could feel her gripping him inside, too, all her muscles pulling him inside and then, head thrown back, that gorgeous sound she always seemed to make, all the breath pushed out of her and her body pushing him out too, but she sat back, kept him inside while she rode it out. Shuddering.  


She had crushed his hand with a grip so tight he thought maybe she might have broken at least one of his fingers. Maybe two.  


When she finally opened her eyes she let herself fall forward onto his chest, holding his face in both her hands, kissed him deeply. That was another thing he wasn't used to yet, the feel of her tongue pressing insistently against his. She was always so tender with it, like it meant something. Like she was speaking a language he didn't understand.  


'We should go downstairs,' he said to her, when she sighed and sat up on him again.  


'What about you?' she asked.  


'What about me?'  


'Don't you need to...um... finish?'  


'Later,' he said. 'If you want to.'  


'I'll want to.'  


'You not getting sore, little bird?'  


'A bit. But I'll still want to.'

* * * * 

That evening there was a musician in the bar, the same lutist who had played with Old Ma Pynch, but this time he was on his own and only playing, it seemed, quiet sad little songs to a half-empty room. Nobody was really paying him any attention, apart from Sansa. She was sitting listening, watching Sandor polish off the last of the stew. It was his third bowl, and Lana's mother had scraped out the pot to get the burned bits from the bottom.  


Sansa was so sick of the taste of it, she had had bread and cheese and a cup of ale to wash it down, and even that was sticking in her throat and threatening to choke her.  


He raised his eyes to hers at last, glugging down another cup of wine. A raised eyebrow. A challenge.  


'What?' she asked.  


'Too good for the likes of me, girl?'  


Her cheeks stung. Hours ago he had been inside her, moving his fingers to the rhythm of her exact need. 'No! Why do you say things like that?'  


'The way you watch me when I eat, like I'm an animal.'  


'I was thinking about something else, actually. I just happened to be looking at you.'  


'What were you thinking about?'  


She looked around the bar. Nobody was listening, but she leaned forwards anyway.  


'What's going to happen?' she asked.  


'We're all going to die,' he said.  


She tutted at him. 'I don't mean _in the end_ ,' she said, crossly. 'I mean, when we get out of here. Are we still going to Winterfell?'  


'Somewhere else you fancy?'  


'It depends.'  


'Aye,' he said, resigned. 'We're still going to Winterfell.'  


'But what if they don't let us be together?'  


He barked out a laugh, threw his head back. Two or three of the people who were listening to the music turned to look at them.  


'Don't laugh at me,' she hissed, kicking him under the table. 'It's not funny.'  


He shook his head and rolled his eyes, as if she was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, drank down the last of his cup. 'I meant it,' he said. 'We're going to die. You, probably, as an old lady, Queen of the Seven Fucking Kingdoms, in some warm silk bed. Me, probably, in a few weeks' time, when your fucking family discovers what I've done.'  


'I won't let them,' she said. 'And you're not going to die. You have a lot of living to do first.'  


Sandor nodded. 'Still one or two things I have to do,' he said.  


'Such as?'  


'None of your business.'  


She frowned. 'Why are you always so rude?'  


'When are you going to realise I'm not like one of those pissing lordlings you like so much.'  


'No,' she said. 'You're definitely not.'

* * * *  


She had gone to bed first, a face like thunder.  


It was his fault, of course, but she should realise by now that he wasn't going to lie to her. Did she really think they would welcome him in through Winterfell's gates with open arms? That her mother would kiss her daughter and then turn to him and say, 'what a fine handsome man, Sansa!'  


He stayed down in the bar with another jug of wine until he could stand the lute player and his miserable little plinking noises no longer. Sansa would be curled up in bed, her back to him, pretending to be asleep. He always had to fuck things up, didn't he? Why couldn't he just tell her what she wanted to hear, for a change? Give her some of what she really craved, not the fucking - he was wise enough to know that she would get bored of it eventually - no, not that. The pretty words. The reassurance that everything would be fine, that they would survive, that he would protect her for as long as she wanted him to, and that she was beautiful and sweet and kind and that he... that he...  


_Go on, you ugly fucker, say it_ , he thought.  


He'd heard her whispering it this morning. Thought he was dreaming it, at first. Her breathy little chirps, next to his ear. 'I love you,' she had murmured. And then again, a bit louder: 'I love you, Sandor.'  


He had grunted and fidgeted and pretended he hadn't heard anything. Pretended to wake up a few minutes after that - he'd had to, since certain parts of him were already well awake and she was busy with her little hand over it, waking it up even more.  


She hadn't said it again, but he thought she was probably going to. And what would he say in return? Something about death and everything being false, something about her cunt and how pretty it was and how that's all that mattered, and he would look at the disappointment written all over her face and he would hate himself a little bit more.  


He took a deep breath and went in.  


'Close the door, then,' she said, a minute later, over her shoulder.  


He was staring at her, open-mouthed. Somehow he'd missed her asking for the bath and for bathwater. She was sitting in it, cross legged, a sponge in one hand. Her hair was long and dark down her back as she rinsed it. He could smell something, some perfume that Lana must have let her have: not lavender but something not far off it. Fragrant and sweet and fresh.  


She had turned back to washing herself, her back to him. He shut the door, sat on the end of the bed and pulled off his boots.  


'You're right,' he said. 'I am always rude. You deserve better.'  


'No,' she said, her voice measured with endless tortured patience, 'I deserve exactly you.'  


She got to her feet, the water running down her body in rivulets, turned into bright jewels by the firelight. 'Take off your clothes,' she said. 'I'm going to want more of you, and you smell like you've been living in the woods for a week.'  


He couldn't help but smile at her, happily obliging by stripping off.  


'I got you a new shirt,' she said. 'Lana's going to wash yours tomorrow.'  


'Where did you get a new shirt?' he asked.  


'Well, I didn't get it. I made it.'  


'Out of what?'  


'Don't ask. Anyway, it should fit. I had to guess your size,' she said, looking him up and down, 'but I know your body well enough now.'  


'I thought you were angry,' he teased, after she had kissed him for several minutes. He was losing himself again, drowning in her. Her wet skin slipping against his, hot and dry.  


'I am angry. But it's made me want you even more.'  


'You can't expect me to be gentle,' he said, 'when you say things like that.'  


'I'm not expecting you to be anything,' she murmured, into his mouth.  


So much for washing. He could not wait any more, not a second. Got her to kneel on the edge of the bed, stood behind her, slid inside her in one sleek movement, making her gasp.  


'That hurt?' he asked, desperately hoping she would say no.  


'No,' she said. 'It's good. Don't stop. Do it hard.'  


He didn't need her to ask a second time. He had been waiting for this all day, growing more aroused every time he looked at her, hard as fuck downstairs in the bar when he saw her perfect little nose tilted up because he was eating deliberately roughly, just to wind her up. Something about her ladylike manners made him want to fuck it out of her; seeing her looking at him with absolute disdain, he wanted to look down and see that smart pretty mouth full of his cock, cheeks bulging with it, saliva running down her chin.  


He wouldn't do anything like that, of course. Unless she wanted it. Unless she asked him.  


He withdrew slowly, almost all the way, just the head of his cock still inside her; looked down at the place where they met, her cunt lips pink and slippery and perfect, swollen with desire. Slid inside again, slowly, feeling her sheath him, feeling her meeting him like a silk cushion. Withdrew again, all the way this time, making her whimper. Her hand reaching behind her, grasping at air.  


'You want it, little bird?' he said, hoarsely.  


'Please,' she muttered. 'Please, hard.'  


He could see the fingerprints he'd left this morning, tiny pink bruises on her milk-white thighs. Traced his fingertips over them, and then bent over to kiss them, and then her cunt. She pushed back against his tongue, wriggling. He felt a little gush of wetness and lapped at it, tasting her desire, the sweetness of her freshly-washed skin. He wanted her dirty, fucked, several days' worth of it. Sweet and wet and slippery was one thing: the rawness of a day and a night of fucking was quite something else.  


He wasn't going to last long, not after this morning, not after the day of waiting, the endless day, and now this: presented with Sansa washing herself, the sponge down her body tracing the exact path he wanted to follow with his tongue. He straightened and pushed into her again, not pausing this time, thrusting harder and faster until his balls were slapping against her thighs with each stroke. Her upper body slipped down into the bed and she clutched the blankets for support as he drove himself into her, her face in the bedclothes. He looked down at her, at his cock disappearing inside her, wetted a finger and pressed it gently against her arsehole, not hard enough to enter. He couldn't concentrate on that, anyway. She reacted and pulled back, and he took his finger away. And then he felt something and realised that her hand was between her thighs, his balls bouncing off her fingers as she massaged herself in those same sliding circles that he'd been doing this morning. His little bird, learning her own pleasure; and the thought of it made him surge with a pleasure of his own.  


He couldn't stop it, then: could not slow down or pace himself because it was already too fucking late, and he was spurting deep inside her, waves of it as he thrust again and again, two times, three times, roared out his fear and his hope and his desire; let out one final sob, collapsed against her.  


Ten minutes or thirty or an hour later, when lifeless limbs finally began to move again, he persuaded her to sit on his face so he could tongue her to another climax. She did not want to at first, felt vulnerable above him, worried that she was going to suffocate him, or fall off, or that he might bite her. He had reassured her and she gave it a try, and then decided she liked it after all, finally managed to relax and even move a little, direct his tongue, slide herself against his face. He could taste his own come inside her. That had been a mistake. He had not wanted to risk that, on top of everything else. Had not wanted to risk talking to her about it, either, knowing instinctively that she would argue that perhaps a child would be a wonderful thing, that her mother would definitely not turn him away if he had sired a baby in her. It was a dangerous thing, a pregnancy. So many of them ended in death anyway; his own life was expendable, hers was definitely not. He had joked about it earlier, but he wanted her to live. Wanted it more than anything, for her to live a long and happy life, safe and content and loved. And he had put that at risk.  


When she slipped off him, all her limbs liquid, poured out, he watched her blissed face and wiped his mouth across the back of his hand.  


He watched her breathing, her eyes closed, her body abandoned to itself, languid and flushed. Her hand reached for his and he took it, watched as her thumb traced over the back of his hand with infinite tenderness. 

She was utterly, vulnerably perfect, and completely his.  


He pulled her into his arms and just held her. Perhaps he could say it, he thought. Maybe not now, but soon.  


He could say it, because it wouldn't be a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote all of that, and I never even used the filthy little bits from my conference notebook! How remiss of me. I'll have to save them for Night Eight....
> 
> ALSO, lads, I've got another busy weekend coming up with lots of visitors here for a family BBQ, so please forgive if there's another delay. I have absolutely sweet FA to do in August (apart from, y'know, work, let's not talk about that) so I will soon be updating right up to Night Nine and then we're done.
> 
> Hope you're enjoying, anyway. As always, please let me know if you spot any mistakes, and please thank you comments are MUCH APPRECIATED.


	8. Eighth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thaw has started...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, hello. Sorry for the delay there. I find writing smut is a really hormonal thing - just me?? - and it's like I have to wait for the bloody moon to circle around again before I can get frisky. Or something.
> 
> Anyway - this takes a while to get warmed up but there's more smut towards the end of this chapter. Enjoy.
> 
> As always, I am hungry for comments, and any suggestions of things to fix.

Overnight the snow came again, thick heavy flakes of it. Sansa woke up when it was still dark, hearing the wind. The fire had burned low and in the night she had moved away from Sandor's naked body, finding him too hot; but now she was cold again, and she sought him out under the covers, and pressed her whole body against him. He growled in his sleep, turned to face her, his arm pulling her against him. She would not be moving away again.  


In the morning he slept on, despite how much noise she made getting up and getting dressed. She did not want to go as far as shaking him awake, fearing that he might be angry at it, but also not quite brave enough to rouse him in other ways. She stood beside the bed for a while, watching him sleep, his hair, that grew in such odd patches over his scars, half covering his face in a tangle; his mouth open a little. Even in sleep his body had a certain magnificence to it. The size of his hands; his bare shoulder. The dark fur covering him.  


For a moment the sight of him made her consider undressing again and getting back in bed. But last night he had pounded into her with such force that she could still feel it; between her legs felt actually bruised. And if she rode him again it would probably hurt quite a bit, despite her longing for him, which had not abated.  


To her surprise, the kitchen was empty. Sansa had never been in this room on her own before, and it felt odd now. Quiet, without Lana and Maer and their mother bustling about. The pot of gruel was on the fire and Sansa took a bowl and helped herself, then found a cup and took some water from the barrel. She ate the gruel quickly and washed up her bowl, and only then the back door opened and Lana came in, bringing a cloud of fresh snow with her.  


'It's not as bad as it looks,' she said to Sansa, stamping her boots. 'It's quite dry, and the sun's coming out. Father reckons we might have a thaw.'  


'Today?'  


'Or tomorrow.'  


Sansa dried her bowl and returned it to the dresser. 'I helped myself. I hope that's all right. I didn't know where everyone was.'  


'Mother's gone to visit her sister. Maer is in the barn, which is where I was. No idea where Father's gone now. How are you getting on?'  


'Oh, with the petticoats? I finished yours and Maer's. I'll finish your mother's-'  


'Not the petticoats, you dolt. I couldn't give a stuff about them. I meant how are you getting on with _him_?'  


'Oh!'  


Lana smiled at her. 'Look at you, blushing. I take it things are going well, then?'  


'I'm not sure what you mean,' Sansa managed to say.  


'You don't have to worry, I won't say anything. So? Is he good?'  


Sansa couldn't quite manage the actual word, but she managed a nod. And then a laugh. How she wished Jeyne were here, or someone else she could talk to! She liked Lana, she really did, but there was still that feeling in the back of her mind that Lana wanted Sandor for herself. She had seen her try, after all.  


'I can tell you don't want to talk about it. But he's kind to you? He isn't hurting you?'  


'No. No, not at all,' Sansa said. She thought back to the Red Keep, to Joffrey and Ser Meryn and the Queen and all of the other people who had hurt her. She thought of the moment she saw her father lose his head, when the Hound - the Hound, then, not Sandor - when he held her back and stopped her from rushing forward. 'Can we talk about something else?'  


Lana took pity on her. 'Just as long as it's not needlework - I'd rather do any job at all than that.'  


'You sound like my sister,' Sansa said.  


'You have a sister?'  


Sansa nodded, bit her lip. 'I don't know where she is.' _And brothers_ , she thought. _And I don't know where any of them are_. All of them lost to her. Would she ever see any of them again?  


There was a little pause, then Lana leaned over and covered Sansa's hand with her own. 'I hope she's all right, wherever she is. She's probably worrying about you, too.'  


'I doubt that very much. She's very - independent. Not like me.'  


'At least you have someone keeping you safe.'  


At that moment they heard the boards creaking on the stairs and Sandor thundered down them, into the kitchen, ducking his head under the low door frame. Lana looked him over and went to fetch him a bowl.  


'I'll eat later,' he said, gruffly. 'I'm going to the stables.'

* * * *  


All things came to an end. Sandor Clegane knew this to be true: all lives ended, some of them sooner than others. He had seen death so many times that it scarcely bothered him at all now, but every so often he found himself thinking about the suddenness of it, the finality. Who knew what gods awaited the souls of the men - and women - he had despatched over the years, if any of them existed at all. All he knew was that once you lost your life, that was it.  


He could not remember the first time he had seen death and he could scarcely recall the last, either: some soldier wearing Baratheon armour in the greenlit darkness of the Blackwater, sliced in two by his sword. It meant nothing to him now. Just the desire to kill before some bastard kills you, the desire to stay alive for no other reason than that he had anger still driving him.  


He tried to dredge up the anger as he rode Stranger up towards the mountain pass, but it wouldn't come.  


The ground was muddy, now; dark, sodden foliage visible through the snow, the sound of water rushing somewhere.  


It was thawing. Finally.  


The snow would come to an end and disappear, and eventually there would be green shoots and crops growing in the fields and he wouldn't be here to see it, and nor would Sansa. They'd be far away by then, maybe in Winterfell, maybe somewhere else. 

He tried hard to picture taking her home but there was nothing but blank darkness in his imagination. He had a bad feeling about Winterfell, for no reason that he could fathom. Westeros was twisting on itself; everywhere was violence and death. Winterfell would be no different. Where could he take her, that was safe? And what about the rest of them? Nobody had seen Arya Stark since her father's execution. He could not believe that the girl was dead. He recalled the white-hot anger in her eyes when he'd run down her friend, on the Kingsroad, on the orders of the Queen. If she'd had a sword, she would have run him through with it without a moment's hesitation. And yet that sort of anger could get you killed, too. You had to learn how to control it, and Arya Stark had not learned those lessons the way he had.  


Higher up the pass the temperature dropped and the ground grew hard and icy once more. He looked at the wall of snow blocking his path and thought it had grown a little smaller. But it was still impassable.  


Maybe tomorrow? He looked at the leaden sky doubtfully.  


Stranger stamped and snickered and he turned the horse to go back.  


Sansa would die. One day she would die. The thought of it made his heart hurt, in a way that thinking of his own death did not. And this, whatever it was - this thing that they were doing - that would end, too. In fact it would end with the thaw, because they could not continue fucking each other on the road. Out there, in the open, they were in constant danger. Since taking her from her cage, he had scarcely slept at all, keeping one eye open, always alert to any sound. People were looking for them, and his constant vigilance was the only thing that was going to keep them safe. Fucking in the open air, much as he wanted to do it, was dangerous. He would be distracted.  


If he could get her to safety, somehow, then maybe...  


He could not imagine it. There was just darkness ahead. Darkness, and death. He tried to find the anger again, thinking of his brother and everything he had done, how he was going to make him pay for it. It simmered and brewed and he had a momentary image of his brother with Sansa... and then there it was, fierce and hot and ravaging, stinking sour and foul like rotten meat and hard like gritted teeth, like bone: and he wanted to take his sword and take Gregor's head off. One day, he thought.  


_If I live that long._

* * * *

'You use your mouth on his cock,' Lana said, 'and he'll love you forever.'  


Sansa doubted very much that that was true. 'I don't think he'd let me,' she said.  


'I think you'll find he will. Men love it. All men do.'  


'He's not like all men, really he isn't.'  


'Try it and see.'  


Sansa thought privately that maybe it was a whore's trick, that it was something that ladies didn't do - she couldn't imagine any of the ladies at court doing it, or... the Queen... that thought made her feel physically sick. And yet - she pictured Sandor's body, the long length of him, tried to imagine fitting it in her mouth. If he thrust in her mouth the way he thrusted into her body, she would choke! She could kiss it, perhaps. And see what happened then. Maybe kissing it would be enough.  


The more she thought about it the more she felt that now familiar tug in her core, the sudden feeling of desire.  


'And then you can get him to do it to you, too,' Lana said.  


'Do what?'  


'Put his mouth on you. And his tongue. It's really very good. And if he does it right you'll peak.'  


Sansa knew all about that, of course. 'You've done this lots of times, then?'  


Lana frowned. 'A fair few.'  


'Who with?'  


'You know. Men. Who stay at the inn.'  


'Does your mother know?'  


'I daresay she does. I don't exactly tell her.'  


'But what if you were to have a child?'  


'Well, I'm careful about that. I make sure they don't spend inside me. And I wash myself afterwards.'  


'Is that what-'  


Sansa stopped herself. She knew, of course. She'd seen stallions and mares and dogs in the yard, that was how foals and puppies were made. But until that moment she had not made the connection between the seed and the fruit, so to speak. And he had spent inside her, last night. It had been so strong she had felt it, the pulsing inside her, and then afterwards the slipperiness between her thighs as it seeped out. He had not said anything about it. But he had put his seed inside her. Perhaps it had all come out again?  


'If a man - ' Sansa began, 'if he does that, then, do you automatically have a baby?'  


'No, not every time. Why? Hasn't he been careful with you?'  


But Sansa was lost in thought. What if she went back to Winterfell with a baby inside her? They'd have to accept him, then. They wouldn't hurt him, the father of her child, would they? They'd make him marry her, probably, and then she wouldn't have to marry anyone else. Surely that was the best possible thing? He'd be safe. She'd be safe. And she would have his child!

* * * *  


Sandor stayed up late, drinking the innkeeper out of wine and ale. The old man yawned and fidgeted after the last of the customers had left the bar, and eventually Sandor took pity on him and swayed his way up to bed.  


He had scarcely spoken to Sansa all day. The impending thaw, and the thought of taking her back out on the road, had put him into a foul mood that he could not shake. For days he had been living moment by moment, letting himself be carried along by the inevitability of her desire and her curiosity. He had decided it was nothing more than that, for all the whispered chirps and the soft kisses when she thought he was asleep. She was a woman grown, it was inevitable that with a feeling of safety would come boredom and with that, lust. She had needs, same as everyone else. And he was just the lucky bastard who happened to be sharing her bed. If anyone else had taken her from King's Landing - although who else might be quite so fucking foolish, he had no idea - then she would have turned her attention to him instead. He was nothing special. He was just _there_.  


For days he had enjoyed it, her explorations, her wondering, her flashes of desire that seemed to come upon her suddenly, just as sleep did; he had let her do whatever she wanted. He had taken advantage of it, too. He could have said no. He could have slept on the floor. He could have kept his clothes on. Instead he let himself go with it, and now he was going to have to take the consequences.  


Because everything came to an end, eventually. And outside, the other side of the mountain pass, the real world waited for them, cold and dark and violent.  


Sansa was in bed, the blankets tucked under her chin; curled into a tight ball, breathing deeply.  


He took off his boots and then his shirt because as always she'd stoked the fire and it was hot as seven hells in the room. Eased himself onto the bed, trying not to wake her. He was glad she was asleep. If the pass was open tomorrow they would need to leave as soon as they could - ride hard, to get away from the inn and the village. Because as soon as the pass was open, people would talk. It would be a long day, a cold one, and there would be no warm bed for her until they found safety again.  


He turned his head towards her. The pull of it - it was like nothing he'd ever felt before. Every night it got stronger.  


He tugged gently at the blankets covering her. Underneath them, to his utter delight and surprise, she was naked. He looked at her back, the sharpness of her shoulderblades, the gentle curve of her spine, lit golden by the fire, unblemished, pure, so beautiful he could scarcely bear to look. And the curve of her waist, how it fell away and rose again at her hip, the swell of her arse. He could put his face there right now, trace his tongue down and underneath to her soft cunt, bury his face in her curls and die happy. And she wouldn't stop him. He would make her sing all over again.  


He reached out a hand and trickled his fingers down the knots of her spine until they found the little dip where her arse began, played with her there, too drunk now and too tired to move his mouth, but imagining how it might feel to kiss her just there, right there, the small of her back. He would be the first man to do it, he thought. He was the first one ever to see this view, to touch her milk-white skin, to move his tongue over it, to taste her cunt. He was the first. Whoever came after him, lucky bastard, whoever he was, he would never be able to claim to be the first.  


He would hold on to that thought until he died; one happy memory, at least.

* * * *  


Sansa waited, still as she could. She had been waiting what felt like forever, a few more minutes wouldn't make a difference. She could smell the wine he'd drunk, hear it in the heaviness of his breath. He had been down there for hours, hours, while upstairs she waited, undressed already to save him time, effervescent with the excitement of what tonight might bring. And she'd waited, and got bored, and contemplated getting dressed again and going downstairs to fetch him to bed, and then after an hour or more of that she had grown angry - wasn't he aware that she would be waiting for him? And after that, eventually, she had begun to realise that he must surely be avoiding her, that he was regretting everything. How else could she explain how desperately he searched for a way out of the valley, every day? He was trapped here, like a dog in a cage. And she had trapped him into her bed.  


No wonder he was drinking himself to oblivion.  


She'd heard him come in, feigning sleep, wishing that she had dressed again after all, or at least that she'd left on her linen shift. What would he think of her? She had tucked the covers up under her chin when she heard his tread on the landing outside the room, hoping that maybe he would fall asleep straight away and she could quietly dress again.  


And now, this. The gentle pull of the blankets. The gentleness of his calloused fingers, following a path down the curve of her spine. Stroking the small of her back. Who knew, that the bottom of her back would be such a fiery place to touch? Something about it connected with her core, set that longing going all over again. She felt that familiar rush of wetness between her legs, flushed at the shame of her body reacting to him, despite herself.  


She turned to face him. He looked almost startled. Had he really thought her asleep? After all that noise he was making, after tickling her? She was angry at him and then that faded so she was just a bit cross, and then something about his face, woebegone, melted her completely. She cupped his cheek in her hand.  


'What's wrong?' she asked.  


'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing.'  


'You said you'd never lie to me.'  


The corners of his mouth twitched. 'Then I don't know.'  


She kissed him, then, unable to summon up anything for him now other than love. He found her breasts with his huge hands and cupped them, running rough thumbs over her nipples until they hardened into tight buds. He tasted of sour red wine and misery, his mouth hot and his tongue hard against hers, and the kiss grew deep and urgent and he pushed her onto her back and clumsily crawled half on top of her, the hair on his chest tickling her. His full weight on her, she could barely breathe. She gripped his shoulders, digging her nails into the muscle, hoping it would make him move.  


And then he did. He flopped back onto his back with a heavy sigh.  


She thought he might fall asleep and so she got to her knees beside him, deft fingers working at the laces of his breeches.  


He looked down at her hands, said 'Fuck,' and let her do it.  


A moment later his cock sprang free into her waiting hands, and she stroked him, both her hands circling him as far as she could. There was no way it would fit in her mouth, absolutely no way at all. She looked at it in awe, thinking it even bigger when you looked at it from this angle - her circled finger and thumb did not quite meet around its girth, however hard she squeezed.  


'Fuck,' he said again, louder, and his cock jerked a little in her hands. It was getting harder, and bigger.  


'You want me to stop?' she asked. Remembered him saying those exact words to her the night of the storyteller, the night he put his hand up her skirts and made her sing for the first time.  


'No,' he said, and groaned.  


He fidgeted and she realised he was trying to lift his hips enough to get his breeches down. She helped him, letting go of him long enough to tug them roughly down over his hips. She looked at the solid muscles of his thighs, the dark hair on them, the dark hair everywhere in fact, a dark forest from which the root of him grew, strong and bold and clearly completely unaffected by however much wine he'd drunk. Which, judging by his inability to speak, and move, must have been a lot.  


She reached a hand between his legs and cupped his balls, as gently as she could. She knew the vulnerability of this part of him, knew it from her brothers fighting when they were younger - the unspeakable pain of being kicked in the balls, apparently, worse than anything a girl could imagine. As it was, Sandor flinched a little when she took them in her hand, hot skin, peach-soft, the firmness of the balls in their velvet purse. She dropped her head, then, unable to resist, and kissed him there, where his cock was rooted and his balls began. Breathed out. Sighed at the warm, rich scent of him. Hummed against his skin.  


His hand clutched at her hair, and she caught hold of it, kissed his palm. She sat up again and regarded him. His eyes were closed, head thrown back onto the lumpy pillow that pricked her cheek with feathers in the middle of the night.  


Well, she thought. Settled herself down next to him again, her face level with his belly, kissed the furry skin there, and moved down. His cock jerked again, anticipating more. She circled it again with her hand, held it steady while she kissed it for the first time. Heard him gasp. Ran her tongue the length of it, from balls to tip, pulled back the sheath of skin and kissed the head of it, tasting the salty tang of the clear fluid that leaked from the hole. Took the whole of the head of it in her mouth and ran her tongue over it.  


'Fuck!'  


His hands were in her hair again, tangling in it, not quite pulling her away but almost ready to do it. His fingers on her cheek, finding the place where her mouth held him captive, trembling at her lips, stretched over him, as if he couldn't quite believe what she was doing - and then back to her hair, stroking it away from her face. She turned her head a little so that she could look up at him, over the hill of his belly. He was watching her, grey eyes dark and wide.  


She let him go with a little pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then lowering her eyes to the beauty of his body, this part of him that had brought her so much intense pleasure in such a short space of time. She could worship him, she thought, for this was every bit as magnificent as any of the gods anyone could care to name. No matter how hard she prayed, she had never felt anything more connected, more perfect, more joyous than she had felt in this very bed, with this man.  


She pressed her thighs tightly together, trying to contain herself. She would give him his pleasure, and then she would let him sleep.  


Her hands had been gripping him as tightly as she could - he liked that, he had told her so, when she had sat on his lap on the chair and gripped him just before guiding him inside. And he did seem to like it, for the harder she gripped and the firmer she stroked him, the more he groaned. He was moving a little now, pushing his hips towards her. She knew that feeling. Lowered her mouth again and took more of him this time, sucking and rubbing him with the flat of her tongue, feeling the veins hard with blood and pulsing against her.  


And then his hand over hers, gripping and moving harder and faster still. She could hear him breathing, loud and hard like he'd been running, or fighting, and then his voice came unexpectedly loud: 'stop. Stop, or I'll finish in your mouth.'  


She lifted her head just in time, watching as the milky fluid pulsed from his jerking cock, spilling over his hand and hers, spurting over his belly, hearing him gasp, and then groan.  


When it stopped she sat up, cross legged, and watched him. He was still, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of it. She felt a surge of triumph at having brought him pleasure, the way he'd done for her. The bridge of skin between her thumb and forefinger was coated with his fluid, running slowly down the back of her hand. She thought of his face between her thighs, the way he wiped his mouth with his hand. The way his fingers had been deep inside her, how he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean. How he had raised a triumphant eyebrow at her and smirked at the same time.  


He opened his eyes and looked at her. She raised an eyebrow, looked again at his semen on her hand, and gave it a cautious lick.  


He groaned again and threw his head back onto the pillow.  


It wasn't unpleasant, she decided, but possibly not appetising enough for her to lick his belly clean of it. Besides, there was all that hair.

* * * * *  


'Where did you learn to do that?' he asked her, as she snuggled up next to him.  


She had wiped him clean with the hem of her shift, which almost felt like an intimacy too far. This woman. How could she keep surprising him, every day, when he felt like he knew her better than he knew himself?  


'It's just what you did to me. I wanted to make you happy. Are you happy?'  


'Aye,' he said, and in that moment it was completely the truth.  


He had every intention of returning the favour, but the combination of the wine he'd drunk, the dark softness of the night, and the fact that he'd emptied his balls over Sansa's hand and nearly over her face too had made him unbelievably tired and he doubted if he could even move.  


She did not seem to mind, pulling the blankets up over him despite how fucking hot it still was in here, curling up into his side and resting her head on his chest.  


'Are you going to sleep now?' he murmured, just in case she was expecting him to do something.  


'Yes,' she said. 'And you can, too. And in the morning, you can fuck me again, if that's all right.'  


He'd not heard her use that word before. His cock, soft and as exhausted as the rest of him, gave a feeble little jerk.

* * * * *  


In the end, he couldn't wait until morning.  


Sansa woke up and it was still dark. Her back was to him and he was curved around her, their bodies sticky with the heat of being pressed together while they slept. His arm was heavy over her waist, his fingers between her thighs, stroking her gently but insistently into wakefulness. She was wet, already, her body readying itself without her.  


She yawned and stretched back against him, hooking her arm back to cup his face.  


'You awake?' he whispered, his mouth close to her ear.  


'I am now,' she said, smiling.  


'Good.'  


She could feel his hardness against her backside, every bit as hot and hard and huge as he had been last night when she had sucked him. How many hours had they slept? She had no idea. Sleepy, disorientated, and very suddenly as aroused as it was possible to be. His fingers working her deftly, massaging her firmly, getting faster, the core of her already longing to be filled.  


As if he could sense her need he pushed a finger inside her and she gasped, feeling an almighty surge of pleasure, and then another as a second thick finger joined the first. She turned her head and kissed his cheek clumsily.  


'Please,' she murmured, into his beard. 'I want you.'  


Clearly the alcohol had worn off. He moved quickly and pulled her roughly onto her back, grasping her ankle and pulling her down the bed, kneeing her legs apart and pushing himself up and inside her in one fluid movement. Hands hooked under her knees to lift her higher and he went deeper still. She locked her ankles around his back as he thrust into her, feeling the shock of desire with every stroke. Her hands went to his face and pulled him down so that she could kiss him, her tongue on his.  


It was quick. She felt the wave of desire hitting her hard, just a few moments later. The friction of his body against hers as he thrust into her triggered it, a surge of pleasure so strong that she cried out, a wail that he smothered quickly with his mouth, while seconds later he pulled out of her, letting out a long, low groan that sounded like an animal, breathing hard against her cheek. She felt hot drops of semen landing on her stomach. And then he rolled onto his back and groaned again.  


'Sorry,' he said, when he got his breath back.  


'It's quite all right,' she said, reaching down to the floor for her shift again.  


'Let me,' he said.  


He took the linen garment from her and found a bit that wasn't already soiled, and wiped her belly tenderly. The look on his face was exactly the same as that moment on the walls of the Red Keep, when Joffrey had shown her the head of her father on a spike, and she had thought about letting herself fall, and taking him down with her. And then the Hound had stepped forward and gripped her arm, and with a cloth dabbed at her lip, which was bleeding from Ser Meryn's blow. Had she known, even then? If she hadn't been so desperately upset she might have noticed, the way he looked at her. The gentleness. But she had been oblivious to it, of course.  


'You don't want me to have a child,' she said. 'That's why you pulled out of me.'  


He looked up at her, grey eyes flinty and resigned. 'I should have not fucked you in the first place, Little Bird. And last night I didn't pull out.'  


'So I'm going to have a baby?'  


'I hope not.'  


'Why do you hope not?'  


She thought he was going to say something about her precious maidenhead again and how some lordling might still have her, but instead he sighed and said, 'Women die in childbirth all the time. Don't wish it on yourself until you're somewhere safe, with a maester and a septa ready to help you if you need it.'  


'You do like me, though,' she said. 'Don't you?'  


He regarded her, expressionless. 'Aye. I guess you could say that.'  


'Which bits?' she demanded, trying not to smile.  


'I like what you're becoming,' he said. 'I like your bravery.'  


She tutted. 'I didn't mean _that_.'  


'I know you didn't. You want me to compliment you, girl? All right, then. I like your cunt. I like how it feels when I'm inside you. And I like that grunting noise you make when you lose control of yourself.'  


She gasped with shock, affronted. 'I do _not_ grunt!'  


'Aye, you do. And I love it.'

* * * * *  


Sansa lay awake long after he started snoring, thinking about what he had said. Was that the first time in his life he had used the word love? She could believe that to be the truth. When else would he have used it? Whether he had felt it, ever, she doubted that the word had even ever crossed his mind before now.  


She smiled and hugged herself, watching his huge chest ride and fall, seeing the pulse of his heartbeat, slow, regular, bumping the hollow of his throat. She had done that. She had made him FEEL. Admittedly he hadn't said it properly, but she knew he felt it. He loved her cunt. He loved the noise she made when she sang (not a grunt, not at all). He never lied. Maybe he couldn't quite say it, yet, but she knew he felt it, just as much as she did.


End file.
